


In the Same Vein

by Drewyth



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Depression, Enemies to Lovers, Love/Hate, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-06-19 17:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 99,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/pseuds/Drewyth
Summary: Ganymede Reid is an aristocrat-turned-pauper. Work, art, and monotony fill his days. His biggest struggle is making ends meet - A foul mouth is no asset to a tavern cupbearer. When he offends the wrong customer, Gan begins to worry less about when he will eat next. Instead, he is left wondering if he might become a meal himself.





	1. The Cupbearer

**Author's Note:**

> Finally writing about my beloved original characters! Marion and Gan have been muses for a long time, and I'm excited to share them with others. Chapters will get longer as the story progresses; first few are on the shorter end of what you can expect. I want to thank everyone taking the time to read this and offer feedback, comments, and just general support! 
> 
> Right now, the plan is to update every other week. Once classes start up again, that schedule might change. I'll keep you all posted in the meantime.
> 
> A special thanks to Kat for helping me outline this story. Without you, there wouldn't be nearly as much angst. Also, thank you to Bren for revising my first drafts. I always cherish your feedback. And again, thank you to everyone reading this now. I hope you enjoy.

A wistful melody rode the breeze to caress a moon-kissed cheek. That breeze came cool, creeping under the window pane like autumn’s own seductive whisper. But the skin it touched was cooler. Fingers danced, long, tan, and slender, over an ivory piano. Parchment crinkled as the page of a composition book flipped. A hand returned to the keys and—

_Ding._

The musician’s spine went rigid. The music choked to a stop. That one. Off. Note. It threw him every time. He allowed his chest to swell on a long, slow breath. Golden eyes fluttered shut. He smiled. Not a problem.

He started over from the beginning of the line. The rhythm painted a vivid portrait in his mind. Love, lust, agony, and longing. All were characters, mysterious and ravishing, in the brilliant script of his design. He could see their faces as the song rose to an exhilarating crescendo and—

 _Ding_.

That. Key.

His smile curdled. A ring finger curled over the key. The wrong key. The one so adamant about being played. _Fine_ , he thought, _I’ll play._

So, he pressed the key. _Ding._ Again. _Ding._ Once more. _Ding, ding_. And eight times over. _Ding. Ding. Ding._ He made a resolution, then: He was going to keep striking that thrice damned key until his fingers learned never to touch it again.

Or perhaps.

He paused, silence settling over the parlor. Bright eyes cast to a black veiled window. His eyebrows twitched, suddenly serene in their expression. Frustration abandoned him, replaced only with a curious thirst. The night was young… And so, too, were the pretty people who prowled its streets.

Perhaps, he thought, he’d take a walk.

 

* * *

 

“Another round!”

The drunken words were a summon in this place. The serving boy who answered each call had no name here. It was for the best. His name was embarrassing; and, if he reflected more deeply, an acute reminder of past failures. But there was no sense dwelling on history. He still had disappointments to cause tonight, in the present.

The world disappointed him too, though; mostly when he compared his own tip tray to those around him. It was common knowledge: The more skin you exposed, the more coin you received. Gan revealed no more than his collar and forearms, and he certainly wasn’t the prettiest server. Eyes that were brown, boring, and guarded glared back at him from his tray. Not very pretty at all. Not ugly, maybe, but plain.

“Aye, boy! More ale!” The command slurred. Gan didn’t know where it came from. Instead, he followed the stench of alcohol. The drunker they were, the drunker they wanted to get. And, sometimes, the more generous they were with money.

Gan dodged a couple stumbling toward the exit. One silhouetted figure hung off the arm of another, giggling, and Gan grumbled at their blatant display of affection. They didn’t need to be so obvious about it. Oh, but maybe he was just bitter they had the _option_. Without thinking, he twisted his single earring, and pressed on.

A bell rang from the entryway. Gan glanced over his shoulder, his invitation sounding automatic, “Welcome to Isaiah’s.”

One full glimpse of the incomer and Gan drew up short. He noticed gold: Golden hair. Golden eyes. Gold sewn into the accents of his blouse. Gold buttons adorning his vest. And, though Gan couldn’t see it, he knew there was plenty of gold filling his purse. He turned, abruptly, shouldering past swarming bodies. When the drunks from before called again, he ignored them. Let the pretty ones tend to them, he thought. It was obvious who the real tips would come from.

As Gan approached, his brow furrowed at the overdressed patron. Was he in the wrong place? His violet half cloak and ruffled cravat seemed more fitting for an opera house, not a musty tavern in the slums. Gan’s guard rose the closer he moved. Maybe he made the wrong decision. He could make more money from this one, sure. But the drunken street dwellers were familiar. Their reactions to his irritation were predictable. This new man was _pretty_. The high cheekbones and upturned nose and full, smirking lips repelled Gan as much as they lured him.

When a gilded gaze met his own, Gan’s suspicion spiked. He stiffened, narrowed his eyes, but closed the space between them all the same. He needed the coin. Needed to ignore the dried vomit clinging to the bottom of his shoe. Needed to open his mouth and say something polite, and hopefully earn enough tips to make rent on time.

“What do you want?” Gan cringed at his own words. He felt gears stutter and churn inside his head. Definitely not what he intended, but his mouth always found a way to run away from him, especially when the pressure to _just be fucking polite_ was so high. Even so, the golden man _smiled?_ Gan frowned, watching as the man’s eyes flicked over his face, took in his attire. He bristled beneath the scrutiny but, thankfully, the stranger spoke first.

“Quite the Renaissance Man, aren’t you?” The man pressed a finger to Gan’s cheek, indicating the paint there. Gan reeled back and, before he could think better of it, swatted the hand away. Just the way this man spoke, flavored with arrogance and French accents, was enough to grate on Gan’s nerves.

“I’m not merchandise.” Gan’s nose crinkled. Already, the man’s audacity stunned him, and his fragile patience splintered. The gears kept clunking along. “Give it a minute. I’m sure the prostitutes that frequent this place will notice how finely made your clothing is and flock right to you. Until then, hands to yourself.”

The man laughed. Was he amused? Belittling his socially inept server? Gan snorted, bit his tongue. At least the man didn’t seem angry. Gan was used to angry. But so what? He got angry too. Quickly. And just because wealthy men tipped well, that didn’t make their pretension any easier to swallow.

“Renaissance Man, yes. Not an actor though. Your words would come out all wrong. That’s alright. I’ve done a bit of traveling, so I’m very good at translation.” The man flashed a smile and laid a hand over his heart. “I want a lot of things, _monsieur_. As for what you can get me… Why don’t we start with a recommendation?”

“I recommend whatever gets you drunk enough to tip me, if that tells you anything.” Gan shrugged. He served, he didn’t drink. Not here. It was all watered-down beer as far as he was concerned.

The man’s eyes flashed, something like entertainment curling the corners of his lips. “Why don’t we settle for a nice sherry-cobbler, extra sugar, light ice?” The man offered Gan an easy glance beneath long lashes. “ _Merci_.”

Gan opened his mouth. He had things he wanted to say, questions like, _Are you really muttering little French phrases to show off how cultured you are? Did you honestly come to a dump like this to feed your superiority complex? Do you think you’re_ better _than me, or anyone else in this shithole just because your clothes are nice, and your hair is curled?_ He already knew the answers, though. He turned instead.

“It truly is a wonder you don’t make any tips.” Gan paused, arching a brow at the man settled into a barstool. The man’s fingers drummed atop the counter and he sighed, glancing over a narrow shoulder. “I’d advise you to show a little more skin…but I really don’t think that’s your problem.”

That comment. Gan’s lip curled. He shook his head, striding back into the crowd. He was going to spit in this guy’s drink. He was going to say something vicious, couldn’t help it. He could just tell. Gan thought he could handle it, thought that years of dealing with people like him, _living_ with people like him, had tempered his agitation some. He was wrong.

But he was also penniless. The few tips on his tray were all he had to feed himself, and even Narcissus back there recognized the pity of those earnings. No. He had no choice but to sway this customer. He sifted through the masses, refilling glasses of ale and collecting pocket lint for gratuity as he went.

“Bram. Need a sherry cobbler.” Gan rested his tray against the bar. He used freed hands to adjust brown curls, tying them back with a cloth.

“Aye.” The man turned his back, and Gan caught him with added requests.

“Extra sugar.” Gan paused, setting his jaw when the bartender’s eyes fell back on him. “And uh… Light ice. Also.”

“Right.” Bram’s sour expression spoiled further. He turned again, slammed a glass on the counter, and set to filling it. Gan scrubbed a hand over his face while he waited, absently watching the crowd, until, “Here’s it.”

“What?” Gan frowned at the pale liquid, tilting the glass under his nose. “This isn’t even the right color.”

“Oh, some kinda cocktail expert, is we now?” Bram finished wiping down a dusty glass and set it between them. “Might be you should stay behind the counter mixing drinks, ‘stead of taking the courtesans’ shifts.”

“We’re supposed to be servers. Not streetwalkers. I’m _doing_ my job. Just—” Gan snatched up the cup, ignoring the satisfaction on his coworker’s face. “Guess I’ll do yours too.”

Gan caught his reflection on his way back, cobbler in hand. He licked his thumb, rubbing paint from freckled skin, and returned to his prized consumer.

“Your beverage.” Gan set the glass down with a delicate _clink_. He felt proud for not mouthing off, particularly when he spotted the courtesan straddling the man’s leg. He looked pleased with himself, this man, and Gan wondered if he was doing it just to prod at him. It didn’t matter. “Anything else I can get for you, sir?”

The man frowned over his shoulder—More of a pout, really—disappointed that his attention was stolen from his new company. “Ah, anything else, yes… But first, I’m sorry, what was your name? It’s very rude not to introduce yourself to a customer. Hideously rude. Isn’t it rude, doll?”

He addressed the girl under his arm. She proved, unsurprisingly, eager to agree. The man rewarded her support with a smile and caressed her rose-painted cheek. Gan swallowed a wave of nausea to see it. The attractive ones were just as rotten as the rest, weren’t they?

“Oh, yes, it is. I know. And rude workers don’t earn good coin, do they, darling?” The man touched his coin pouch. His fingers traveled up the back of a taffeta gown, but Gan didn’t miss the way his head turned to avoid the woman’s kiss. “And, after we learn your name, tell me, do you have a back room?”

Gan’s eyes flicked from the man’s sharp grin, to the woman on his lap, to the coin purse on the counter. All those things were being used to taunt him, and heat flared in Gan’s cheeks. The gears screeched, building to mechanical roar. He wished he had spit in his drink, even as he forced his voice to a low evenness.

“You can do me a favor: Keep your coin, and I’ll keep my name. Don’t want it tainted by your lips.” He whirled, when repulsion gripped him, fueling his fire. He looked back again. “Back room’s through there.” He jabbed a thumb toward the building’s exit. “This isn’t an inn. _Au revoir, ‘monsieur_.’”

Gan drove back into the crowd. It unsettled him enough to see ugly drunks fondling paid escorts. But watching wealthy, attractive folk do the same thing reminded Gan of his own father, the affairs he had by cover of night. _Those_ sexual tastes were acceptable, apparently. Refusing an unwanted arranged marriage, though… Oh, did _that_ raise an alarm back home.

Gan shook the thoughts away. He’d left all that behind. It followed him in these small ways, vague reminders, but he didn’t need to engage with it. He should focus on work. On earning tips instead of busting gears.

And earn tips he did, much to his surprise. Gan returned to the crowds of drunks he’d neglected before. In the meantime, they’d guzzled even more drink, grown even more sloppy. As much as their slurred catcalls and uncoordinated groping unnerved Gan, he was half-grateful; so long as they mistook him for someone finer, more agreeable, their coin kept pouring in.

By the end of his shift, Gan counted enough tips to afford both rent and a new set of paints. Satisfied, he shed his apron and pocketed the change. Dawn painted the edges of the tavern in a dull red haze. Only a few patrons, most unconscious, loitered within. The wealthy Frenchman was not among them, though his drink remained— _Completely full, that wasteful ass—_ and his face lingered in Gan’s mind. It was a face laced with offense, right after Gan’s final words to him. Gan sighed on his way out the door. Sometimes the things he said insulted him too.

He blamed those gears.

The gears clunking along inside Gan’s head. They were a defense. Offense. They fueled automatic jibes and pre-programmed responses in tense situations. They annoyed him at times, but he appreciated the gears all the same. For if the gears stopped, and he was left stuttering and exposed, the streets would swallow him up. The slums were no place for sincerity, or for broken gears.

So, Gan kept the gears turning until he reached his house, if one could call it a house. The hobbled structure was weather-worn, flaking in some spots, and crumbling in others. Three of four windows were boarded up, and the fourth was cracked. Some nights, he heard the roof groan and wondered if it might cave in on him. That thought would lure him to sleep, but so far, he’d always woken up come morning, and his home continued standing.

For all its imperfections, this place offered Gan refuge. Walking past the threshold, he felt the gears begin to sputter and halt. Guilt trickled in through cracks in the machinery. A low, reproachful sound left him as he crumpled his bandana in one hand, pressing pale knuckles to his temple. Stupid, he was stupid to speak so sharply to that stupid golden man. He could have earned himself more pay for less work, or better: He could have won himself a returning customer. Instead, he let the gears speak for him. _Stupidly._

A loud mew caught his attention. A furry face nuzzled into the palm hanging at his side, and Gan pet it absently. Another meow.

“Yeah, I know.” Gan dragged himself up from the foot of his mattress. “Why don’t you just climb back through the window when you want out?”

The little black cat mewled back at him, and he sighed, nodding. When he opened the front door, she bussed up against his calf, purring. He scratched between her ears until she was satisfied and sauntered off. Gan watched the stray go, knowing she’d return at least. He didn’t mess up conversations with animals like he did with people.

Gan settled at his desk, adjusting the wooden wedge beneath one of its legs so it didn’t wobble as much. He dragged over fresh parchment and a pot of ink. He glanced to a stack of sealed envelopes, each addressed to another stranger. Letters he would never send. Then, he pressed down the glistening black tip of a quill and began to write.

 _To The Golden Man_.

Gan paused. He reflected on every cruel word he’d spoken, every bitter glance and scoff. He thought about whether the man deserved it; he’d been rude too, after all. But no. This wasn’t the tavern man’s apology. It was his own. He must be thorough, and he must be sincere.

Gan wrote without thinking, after that. Neat cursive sprawled along the page almost of its own accord. It only stopped when Gan signed the note, _Monsieur._ Without proofreading, he laid the letter out to dry. Tomorrow, he’d add it to the pile.

For now, Gan slumped onto his bed, grunting from its stiffness. He stared at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, and thought about nothing. Sunlight filtered through boarded windows, highlighting the stains in splintering pine floors. After a time, he shifted onto his side. A hand went to his coin pouch, and he spilled its contents out to count.

Before he had finished, Gan decided it hardly mattered; he would trade any number of silver coins if only he could have a silver tongue.

*

Twilight glittered on a fluid backdrop of blue. The horizon burned red before fading to a deep, violet gradient. Black alder swayed in an unseen breeze, magnificent silhouettes whose secrets were known only by the crickets and nightingales. Both creatures sang now, their choir orchestrated by the stars.

Those dazzling constellations were new friends to Gan. Growing up in the heart of the city, he’d become far more familiar with flickering lanterns, the bleary glare clinging to rows of streetlamps. The stars were different. Ethereal and strange. Out by the riverside, their light was commanding; tiny white flames against an obsidian canvas. Gan thought it was a privilege to share the night with them. He did not mind that the air was brisk, or that fluttering moths sometimes swarmed his single tallow candle. He simply adjusted his scarf and added the moths to his portrait. He thought they were pretty, in ways their butterfly cousins overshadowed. He painted their cloaked forms with careful consideration.

_“How long will you be gone for?”_

Gan swallowed phantom dialogue. Past conversations and distant faces resurfaced in his mind. A reply bubbled past the haze of reality. It was a voice he liked: Amiable, and unlike the slurred demands of those he usually treated with.

_“A few months. I have more deliveries to make. More supplies to gather. Y’know I’d stay if I could.”_

Gan stared hard at the river, fingers twitching over his paintbrush. The sky continued to darken. Still, the glow of the setting sun highlighted feathered puffs of cumulus. He swiped a hand over his forehead. When he pulled it away, he found his knuckles smudged with red paint. Red like…

_“Since you can’t…”_

His hair.

_“I was wondering…”_

Like fire.

 _“No one’s watching_. _”_

And his lips looked just as warm.

Pain pricked Gan’s neck. He smacked a mosquito, teeth bared in agitation. It wrenched him from his fantasies long enough for him to notice rainwater speckling his canvas. He turned his palm up under the beginnings of a light drizzle. Soundlessly, he tucked his paints into one arm, cradling his easel with the other. As he descended the grassy hill, he thought of Belle, hoping she’d found shelter alright. Knowing her, the cat was already curled up on his bed to claim it as her own. He just prayed she hadn’t brought another mouse with her this time.

Once he was safely stationed beneath the cobblestone bridge, Gan sat with the portrait in his lap. He’d accent the water a bit more next dusk. He didn’t want to risk painting by memory and slaughtering such a divine scene. He could wait.

Water whispered against the gravel near Gan’s toes. When it retreated, runoff trickled between stone crevices, and Gan chased it with his eyes. He liked the water; at this distance, though. He didn’t know that he could stomach a ship ride. Not even with someone like…

_His eyes were green. They crinkled when he laughed, and the sound might have been contagious, if Gan hadn’t shelled up. If the laughter weren’t indirectly targeting him._

_“I’m sorry. Gan?” The merchant boy touched his arm. Normally, Gan longed for that touch. Now, though, it let him know he’d gone too far, revealed too much. “I’m flattered but I, uh—”_

_“Yeah.” Gan recoiled from hands that were callused from hoisting wooden crates and churning heavy oars. His lips tingled from the rejected kiss. He bit them, punishing._

_“I mean, I’m going back out on the water. Tonight.”_

_“I get it.”_

_“And you have Juli.”_

Gan groaned, the sound even more tangible than the memories he’d stirred. The name of his formerly betrothed felt poisonous to him. _She had red hair too_ , Gan remembered. _But she wasn’t the one you loved. Couldn’t be._ Gan folded his arms around himself, protective. The rain, pattering wet on surrounding stone, soothed him some. He straightened and watched the night dissolve into grey.

Gan rose, selecting a blank sheet of canvas and mounting it on his easel. He listened to the rush of falling water, which mingled with the river’s low hum. He closed his eyes when thunder rolled overhead, his mind giving it color, form. 

He flicked his wrist, painting blue-grey streaks across the page. Blackness lurked in the corners, a fluid imitation of night’s dark shroud. Gan dipped his brush into the yellows then, seeking contrast. He tilted his head, eyes flicking between his palette and his work. Thin brows knotted together over a focused gaze. His hand moved automatically, and he found himself mixing a perfect pool of gold.

Gan brushed webs of shimmering metallics atop the gloom. He exhaled softly, careful not to disturb the piece with even a breath. Mesmerized, he etched intricate golden scrollwork into dull monochromes. The rain became a storm, which became a torrent, which eventually eased into quiet autumn. All the while, Gan worked. Perhaps he did it with golden coins in mind.

Or golden eyes.

 

 


	2. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter Two! I'm super excited to know that people like what I've written so far. This is a Marion chapter, and its length is about what you can expect in future updates. As always, I want to thank Kat for helping me outline, Bren for helping revise, and you guys for reading. Thoughts and comments are always appreciated! Enjoy.

The autumn had been a wet one. Even now, a storm battered the windows, pounded rough masonry. Lightning split the sky in sprays. An earthy scent pervaded the air; soil turned to mud and kicked up into feral winds. Nature herself unleashed a howl that demanded attention, distracting city folk from evening chores. Even basking in the comfort of an opulent manse, one could recognize its ferocity. At its worst, the weather seemed a wicked, voracious thing. At best, it proved inconvenient.

Marion Gavotte hated the rain. Some, he knew, found it soothing. He assumed the same people dragged their fingernails over slate for fun. He’d spent too many nights trapped inside and waiting out storms. By the time they subsided, it was often too late to venture out into town. All he could do was entertain himself at home and pray the confinement didn’t drive him insane. Once, he swore he’d gotten close. There seemed such a fine line between madness and boredom.

To stave off the latter, Marion found himself practicing various hobbies. A few nights past, he’d dabbled in poetry. Yesterday, he’d tried sewing, and lost patience once he pricked his finger. And, of course, no home was complete without a piano.

Tonight, Marion hummed to himself while molding a clay vase. Well, what was intended to be a vase. He still had a few lumps to work out. Regardless, when he sat back to examine the piece, he felt proud. He kneaded along with cautious fingers.

Outside, thunder roared. Window shutters opened, slammed hard against brick.

“God—” Marion startled. His hands clenched, and he looked up to watch the rain pour. Despite those dreadful sounds, the worst of the storm had passed. Marion arched a brow, unimpressed with how long it had taken. His eyes returned to his pottery. To four ugly indents pressed into the clay. “What the…?”

Ruined. And _he_ was the culprit. He glanced at his hands, muddy from his labor, and his lip curled. He shoved back from the table. His chair nearly toppled as he stood.

“Damn it all!” Marion whirled, snatching a rag from the back of his seat. He wiped his fingers clean and fled the room. “Warren! Warren, there must be something we can do in this godforsaken…”

Marion trailed off when a folded piece of paper caught his eye. Irritation brewed. He knew that sight well. Still, curiosity drove him to retrieve the note and read what was written.

 _Marion_. _Out again. Warren._

“Naturally.” Marion sighed. The letters were getting shorter by the day. How mean his housemate was, disappearing almost nightly without a word of explanation. This was nothing new, of course, but the repetition chafed at him. It felt stale.

Marion’s gaze returned to the window. Now, only thin rivulets trickled down the panes, and that last crack of thunder appeared to be the final one. If he was going to leave, it needed to be soon.

First, Marion found a scrap of paper for himself. He began a letter to his careless friend, planning to be just as brief, curt, and aloof. His words flowed more gracefully than Warren’s, but that wasn’t much of a comparison. Neither one had taken calligraphy classes, and it showed.

 _Warren,_ Marion’s letter began. _I am also going out._

Already, he’d exceeded his word limit. He frowned but continued anyway.

_With love, Marion. P.S. You left your window open. Your bed is drenched._

Neither claim was true, but if they caused Warren even a moment of distress, it was worth it. Marion rested his letter overtop Warren’s and frowned. To think, they were the only two living in this miserable manse, yet their communication was limited to vague written word. Ah well, nothing to be done about it. He didn’t like talking to Warren anyway.

With a final glance at the window, Marion grabbed an umbrella and headed through the door. He only opened it once he crossed the threshold and felt a damp breeze plucking at his clothes. It was wet, drizzly, but the thunder was gone, and he preferred anywhere to that solitary cage.

When he stepped into the streets, his annoyance left him. He forgot the puddles underfoot, and his misshapen pottery, and Warren’s elusive letter. He inhaled night’s sweet perfume and a smile crossed his face. Here, he was a performer. Every pedestrian he passed served as his audience, and he always offered quite the show.

“Oi, you sir! You look as though you could use a new hat. Why don’t we get you fitted, yes? A nice hat to keep your ears warm this autumn. Ho, I’ll grab me some measuring tape. Just you wait right there, sir! Yes, you wait right there.”

Marion grinned, turning his head to chase the man’s sales pitch. It seemed he was not the only performer on these streets. “A hat? To cover the golden locks I worked so hard to curl? Another night, _monsieur!_ ”

“Ah, but it will take only an instant to get you fitted! Please, sir, I insist. Is it not better to secure a hat now, rather than waiting until a bad hair day is already upon you?”

Marion laughed, the sound chiming high above the streetlights. “You play a persuasive tune, my friend, but hats do not belong in the theater—”

“Is it the opera house you’re heading to then, sir?” A short girl with hair pulled tight behind her head waved a stack of papers. “Bring a flier to Admissions and you’ll get one of the best seats on the balcony, guaranteed.”

“On the balcony? Could a fellow like myself not get a better deal?” Marion strode forward, and the girl shrunk back, hesitating.

“Well, I—I don’t have much say over that, sir, but.” She paused, chewing the inside of her cheek with a furrowed brow. “Yes, I think… You look like a man of fine repute. Go there and ask for Edwin. He might get you a bargain.”

“Aye, but not without a fresh pair of gloves first, lad!” a woman called from another stand.

Marion turned a hand over in front of his face. “Gloves? In the middle of autumn?”

“Autumn won’t last but another month, boy. And prices soar once the first snowfall hits.”

Marion drifted past, accepting a flier from the opera girl on his way. “A thousand apologies, _madame_. I’m loyal to another tailor on the outskirts of the city. But I do admire your business. Do you accept donations?”

Coins glinted and glimmered as he withdrew them from his purse. He flicked them here and there, listening as traders advertised show mares and pipes, and watching their faces brighten under his attention. When he passed the merchant’s square, he touched his coin pouch. It jingled reassuringly. He had plenty to see whatever show he liked and, afterwards, he could treat some pretty date to a midnight meal. He walked on.

City chatter colored the air. All around him was a flurry of movement. People laughed, every one a vibrant character even off the stage. They each boasted unique styles, personalities, and secrets. Marion watched each face, trying to riddle some of them out. They intrigued him, these city folk, and he could see that he caught their interest as well. Normally, he’d stop to indulge some of them. Entertain. Tonight, though, he had a specific destination in mind. He preferred not to dawdle.

At last, here he was again: Too many blocks from the opera house to say, convincingly, that he’d taken a detour. He planted a hand on his hip, raising a brow at the chipped paint above the door. _Isaiah’s Tavern_ , it read. Everything about the place was mediocre: The lighting. The décor. The drink. _The employees._

So, why was he here to visit one? _Do you mean to teach him some manners, is that it? Perhaps you’d like to look at his paintings, invite him over for tea?_ He snorted and glanced at the front window. Golden eyes reflected back at him.

His gaze traveled to a group beneath the pavilion. Magnificent gowns and tightly coifed hair caught his attention. Perhaps, he thought, he could bring another escort with him, watch his favorite little server fume. Marion had spent a bit of time analyzing the freckled boy’s reaction during his last visit. He concluded that he must have been jealous. Now he wondered if the boy envied Marion for attracting such beautiful company, or the lady who’d had the pleasure of accompanying him that night. He liked to pretend it was the latter.

Marion’s eye caught on a brunette whose hair fell in ringlets over an exposed back. Her eyes were brown, and freckles sprinkled her cheeks, though she tried to hide them with powder. A familiar color palette, and a perfect opportunity. Ah, but repetition was so _boring_. He turned his gaze away.

The strumming of a lute snagged his senses. Marion’s ears perked, and he sought the source. He found it, a shaggy-haired boy sitting cross-legged on the curb, and a fresh idea sparked. Mischief accented his smile. He approached.

“My, for a moment I thought heaven’s doors had opened, and it was the angels’ playing I heard.” Marion flashed a smile, his voice dripping so much flattery, it sounded nearly sarcastic. “Is that an original composition?”

“Oh.” The boy looked up, his face pink with embarrassed gratitude. When his eyes met Marion’s they widened, and he blushed hard. “I was just warming up. Sir.”

“That’s all?” Marion withdrew some coins from his purse and tossed them the musician’s way. “You’ve clearly mastered the art, if _that_ beauty was a warm-up. What other arts do you dabble in?”

“No, uh, none really. Just. I mean, I write sometimes. Poems, usually. Sometimes scripts.”

“Ah! A true Renaissance Man,” Marion mused over familiar words. He appraised the stammering lad then decided, yes, he would do fine. “I’m a musician myself, and I would be flattered to hear of your creative pursuits. Would you join me for a drink?”

“I’m—Yeah. Sure. I guess, should I bring my lute?”

Marion guided the boy up from where he sat before he finished the question. He just managed to grab his instrument and coin on the way. Their eyes met again, and the boy looked ready to shy away, but intrigue held him still. Marion smiled. “What’s your name, doll?”

“Jamison.” He stuttered once, and Marion chuckled. It was a shame he didn’t completely forget his own name. “And yours?”

“I can’t give you all my secrets before we’ve even been seated. You’ll just as good as leave me if I lose my mystery, won’t you?”

There was something in the boy’s eyes that begged to differ. It was a pleading look that promised he’d follow Marion into the very pits of hell, if he asked it. He shook his head. This one was _very_ easy to influence, wasn’t he? Well, good. It was a nice contrast from the other boy they were about to meet with.

When Marion stepped into the tavern, the stench of cheap liquor strangled him. It wasn’t the smell itself that choked him, but the memories it returned to him. A phantom hangover probed his temples. He clasped hands with the boy at his side. A palm slick with sweat brought him back to the present. He squeezed once, and a squeak from his company left him grinning.

Now, he sought another boy who was unskilled in social affairs, but in a different way. Marion scanned the crowd, even as he used Jamison to pave the way.

“Um, I’ve not really been here often. Do you recommend anything?”

“Yes, don’t try to initiate conversation with the servers. They’re a miserable bunch.” Marion handed off his umbrella to the boy, who fumbled before tucking it awkwardly beneath his arm. And there, as if alluding to his presence summoned him, the waiter from four nights ago appeared. Marion pulled Jamison into a seat and turned to watch the head of tangled brown hair drift closer. Oh, and it would seem his coin tray was far from full. What a wonder.

“Hey, so, you said you’re a musician?” Jamison piped up. He sounded desperate to win back Marion’s attention, _naturally_ , so Marion granted it to him.

“I did say that. Have you added, ‘impeccable memory’ to your long list of talents?”

The boy swallowed, looked abashed. “I…can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Then I didn’t deliver my lines properly.” Marion said the words jokingly, but irritation nagged at him. His charm was slipping; his preternatural allure was something he had to work at. _Not like Warren_. He sighed. “I fancy myself a good piano score. But I’m better conversation with a drink in me. Look over your menu. I trust you can cover the tab with the coin you’ve earned playing?”

The boy looked up, eyes wide, and Marion laughed.

“Kidding! Honestly, _chéri_ , what spoiled sort would you take me for?” Marion hummed, and the boy glanced down, muttered an apology. The game stopped there. Marion frowned, arching a brow as the boy delved into his menu. What a meager thing. At least the lady from his previous visit had engaged him in playful conversation, even if it was for the sake of coin. Without even that forced courtesy, Marion’s attention wandered.

Oil lamps glowed dim atop every table. Some had been knocked over, their lights extinguished in puddles of ale. Each piece of furniture was stained with a dark red finish, but not recently, and all of it splintered and frayed around worn edges. All over, grizzled men rolled dice, dealt cards, and placed bets. Not regrettably, their features blurred under a pungent haze of smoke. An older blonde Frenchman came to mind, sitting in a poorly tailored suit and sucking on cheap cigars. But that memory proved just as cloudy as the tavern air. Marion let it pass.

Through the fog, he relocated a familiar face, a seemingly perpetual scowl. He wondered if the serving boy had made that expression too often as a child, and now his muscles had frozen that way. Had anyone ever seen him smile? Perhaps seeing an old friend would help. Marion hooked his fingers into his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

“Yoo-hoo! Oh, dear! We’ll be needing a drink. Over here, _mon beau_! Freckles!” Marion watched the serving boy turn at that final call. He looked ready to ignore him— _Rude—_ but caught a manager’s eye, visibly sighed, and turned to Marion once more. Marion waved, gestured to emphasize his lack of drink. “Yes, that’s right. This way now.”

And this way, he came. His jaw set, a dimple appearing in his cheek. His eyes flicked between Marion and his company, and he slammed two empty mugs on the table. Jamison flinched.

“Didn’t drink the one I brought you last time, so you’re here to waste another?” The boy’s eyes were cutting but shaded by sleeplessness. Marion smirked. The server responded with a huff. “Fine. But waste the stuff we carry in large supply.”

Freckles filled the two glasses using his pitcher of ale. His gaze flickered to the man who was presumably his boss, then to Jamison, then returned.

“Enjoy.” He turned to go. Paused. Marion cocked a brow, remembering a similar situation from last time. Freckles would whirl to leave, and then, after turning over some thought in his mind, he’d jerk back around and— “I wouldn’t get too comfortable with him, Jamison. You know he’s a rich boy. Thinks we’re jokes.”

“Oh, uh…” Jamison shrank under the attention. Marion took the opportunity to tuck an arm around him and splay a hand across his back.

“ _Mon cher_. John, was it? Ignore him. I know he’s had a horribly long night. And can’t you imagine working in his shoes? Surrounded by such exquisite drink but unable to afford a drop for yourself? Well, if he were more polite, perhaps that last bit wouldn’t be an issue, what with tips and all, but…” Marion hummed, which rumbled into a chuckle when he noticed the serving boy stiffen.

“Jamison,” he mumbled. Something twitched in his jaw. “His name’s Jamison.”

“That aside.” Marion waved his hand dismissively. A smirk turned up one side of his mouth. “We must be sympathetic. Well anyway, here’s to glasses that never empty, and thirsts quenched forever!”

He raised his mug in a single swinging motion. It was a deliberate act, too fast, too forceful. Before his server could escape, liquid sloshed over the side. More than half splattered across the floor. The rest seeped into Marion’s pant leg, and he cringed. That hadn’t quite been where he was aiming but, regardless, Freckles stopped midstride. Marion feigned a gasp to complete the scene.

“Should I…?” Jamison hesitated. Marion brushed the boy’s worry away but stood, theatrically mimicking his concern. This time, his scowling serving boy was the only audience that mattered. His reactions were just so _raw_.

“Ah! Excuse me! We’ve had a bit of a spill…” Marion bit his lip to suppress a smile, and his eyebrows tilted in apology. “Hurry back here, please. It’s terribly sticky.”

Freckles waited. Marion watched every muscle lock. He might have been refraining from lashing out, through words or through action. Finally, a deep breath melted his body into motion, and he returned with forced tenderness.

“Here. Clean yourself up.” He freed a tattered bandana from his hair. He handed it over, and Marion watched a muscle leap in his forearm. Chocolate curls spilled over his brow, coiled at his jaw. “And when you’re done, just _keep_ it.”

Marion accepted the cloth between two fingers. It had been tangled into a sweat-greased mane the entire night. How counterproductive would it be to mop up a mess with a filthy rag? Marion raised his brows, critical, and the server went on watching him with a quiet challenge of his own.

“Thank you.” Jamison broke the silence, clearly discomfited by its tension. He nodded when Freckles glanced his way, and the server took that as his cue to go. He snatched his pitcher and empty tray and vanished into the crowd.

“He didn’t even stay to clean his mess.” Marion’s eyes cut to Jamison’s, daring the boy to correct him. “Spilled it everywhere and he couldn’t even be bothered to right his wrong.”

“He was in a hurry.” Jamison plucked absently at the strings of his instrument, watching the vibrations shiver through them. Marion smiled to himself. Maybe Warren should be learning from _him_ ; with his charm properly at work, he could wrap anyone around his finger.

Well, almost everyone.

His eyes followed Freckles into the rolling sea of smoke. Here was an interesting one. He could look Marion in the eyes and maintain constant dialogue without even a flicker of interest. _Your allure is weak, Marion_. Warren’s critique echoed in his mind. _You have to work harder than most. It doesn’t come naturally to you._

Marion let the bandana flutter onto the musician’s lap as he stood. If he had to work harder, he would. He never minded a little extra effort if the pay-off was good. This game he’d created promised to be quite rewarding. He just had to reclaim the little serving boy’s attention.

Marion picked out the boss among the horde. It was the man Freckles continued glancing at while deciding whether to ignore him. Auburn hair curled back from a flushed forehead, and the eyes he turned on Marion’s approach were less than inviting.

“If it’s ale you want, you best be asking the servers.” Blue eyes looked him over, and the man sized Marion up. Even straightened to his full height, he hardly reached Marion’s chin. “Don’t think we serve what you drink, though.”

“Oh, no, I’ve been served. Can’t you tell? I’m wearing my drink.” Marion gestured to the stain on his pants, which had grown uncomfortable against his skin. His lip poked into a pout. “Now, I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose. And the last thing I want to do is get such an otherwise spectacular employee into trouble, but you see…” Marion’s gaze shifted back to Freckles, where he served others with the same stoic expression. “Well, he had a bit of a spill back there and… Ah, I don’t mind cleaning it up. It’s a mere trickle, really. That said, I do believe an apology is in order, no?”

“He spilled that on you?” The man looked him up and down, gesturing with a snap of the wrist. He snorted. “Aye, boy. Boy! _You_. C’mere.”

Marion caught the exact moment Freckles registered the situation. He glanced over his shoulder, a thin furrow between his brows, and brown eyes widened in recognition. His lips tugged into a harsh slant. Finally, he wove his way over, his tray still balanced against his hip, though Marion couldn’t see what for. It wasn’t as though anyone was tossing coins onto it.

“There a problem?” Freckles spoke to his boss, but his eyes locked on Marion’s. Marion did his best not to betray his triumph. There would be time for that after. There was a beat before the boy remembered his manners and added, “Sir?”

The tavern owner looked him over, a critical glint in red-rimmed eyes. “You spilled ale on him and didn’t say nothin’ about it?”

“With all due respect, the drink was already in his hand when ‘ _I_ ’ spilled it.” The server turned to Marion, a sullen look darkening his face. “Guess if you don’t wanna own up to it, sorry for your lack of—”

Marion raised his brows. He was impressed, honestly, that this boy’s mouth kept running even now.

He only stopped when his boss cuffed him upside the head.

Marion stifled a gasp. He hadn’t anticipated _that_. He wanted to get the boy scolded, certainly, but not _struck_ ; it was an uncouth way to handle such a petty feud. Marion frowned. Silence stretched.

At last, Freckles spoke to the floor, grinding out the words between clenched teeth. “I’m terribly sorry. I’m clumsy.”

Marion looked between the boy and his boss. This wasn’t how he envisioned things but, ah, he got the apology he wanted. It was unsatisfying. It was something.

“Of course. Accidents happen to the best of us.” His smile returned, and he brushed his hand across the boy’s cheek. He noticed traces of paint, and daggers in a brown gaze. “I used to teach etiquette classes, you know. I wouldn’t mind bringing back a few private lessons if you’re looking to kick that clumsy habit of yours, hm?” He pushed the boy’s hair back, because he didn’t have his bandana anymore. Because his method of grooming personally offended him. He wouldn’t make the boy apologize for _that_ , he supposed.

“Thank you.” He smiled, just like Marion wanted. But this was an unsettling thing. There was something sinister, _promising_ in that expression. “I’ll go fetch some proper towels.”

“I would appreciate that.” Marion watched Freckles shrug into the crowd again. This time, he motioned for Marion to follow, so he did. He studied the boy’s shoulders, shifting beneath a collared shirt and plain brown vest, and wondered if his charm was finally starting to settle in. His allure must have contributed to the boy’s compliance; even the spitfire couldn’t brush off such a powerful aura forever.

“Is that something you tolerate daily, or is he just in a particularly rotten mood tonight?” Marion spoke to Freckles’ back. He waited for a reply, even a dirty look would do, but received none. Instead, he was escorted back to Jamison’s side while Freckles produced a fresh rag from behind a nearby counter. He didn’t meet Marion’s eyes when he knelt to dab at his pantleg.

“Oh, I could have taken care of _this_ much. I just wanted a clean rag and an apology, really. You are too accommodating. Ah.” Marion frowned when the boy finished soaking up the mess on the floor and took off without another word. He hated when his charm coaxed people into timidity, for surely that was what he’d just witnessed.

“Hey, you’re all cleaned up.”

 _Impeccable memory_ and _observation skills, Jamison._ Marion smiled and touched the boy’s lute. Jamison stiffened, looked protective, but Marion cast him a glance and the boy relaxed, embarrassed.

“Where do you plan to take this talent of yours?” Marion caressed the instrument before plucking at a string. It chimed out of tune.

“Oh, you mean, my goals? For the future?”

“Your goals. Dreams. Aspirations, hopes, wishes, and fears. Tell me all of it.” Marion tapped his fingers against his cheekbone, letting lantern light play in his eyes when he tilted his head. “Enthrall me.”

“Well, I… I’ll try. I want to go—Well, I started playing when I was young. My grandfather passed unexpectedly. He wasn’t a wealthy man but, uh, he left each of his grandchildren one item that was important to him. For me, it was his lute. I taught myself…”

Marion watched the boy without seeing him, listened without hearing. It interested him, knowing how animated even the shyest people became when discussing their passions. He could relate; even now, his fingers drummed a silent piano score on his knee.

He wanted to add more to the conversation, to encourage this boy, but his eyes wouldn’t stop drifting to a sun-kissed neck. He ran his tongue over his teeth and swallowed. He shouldn’t listen too closely. Shouldn’t get too involved.

 _You’re soft, Marion._ Warren’s voice again. Marion’s jaw clenched, his hand tightening on his glass. Hungry competition writhed alongside indignation. _You still think like they do. Stop._

Marion exhaled sharply through his nose. Jamison stopped midsentence, his expression faltering. “Did I say something?”

“You said a lot of things.” Marion tilted his glass to peer inside. Only then did he recognize the uncomfortable silence and smile to fill it. “All of it wonderful. Please, go on.”

The boy continued, stammering on about dreams he’d likely die before accomplishing. Perhaps he’d even die tonight. It all depended on Marion. His appetite. The ruthless hunting that he was _absolutely_ capable of no matter _what_ Warren said.

Marion took some of the ale into his mouth, swishing it over his tongue. His nose crinkled, and he spit it back. It wouldn’t quell his thirst besides. Only one specific drink could do that for him. He flaked at the edge of his chair, impatience and hunger coiling hot inside him. His eyes swept back over Jamison’s throat.

Then, he noticed someone shifting closer from the corner of his eye. _Freckles_ , he thought, and he settled more comfortably in his seat, appeared even more interested in Jamison’s tale. He noticed a cup of toothpicks near his elbow and selected one, turning it over in one hand.

“…started sleeping on the street. It’s easier to make money in the city, and home’s too far away. Besides, they don’t appreciate music as much where I’m from. I think that’s why Grandpa died so suddenly. He moved away from the city and stopped expressing his passion. That kills you after a while, I think.”

Marion found it hard not to listen. He scratched absently at a tooth with his pick, but his focus fell back to the hopeless musician. He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing at the sentiment. “Yes. Silence kills an artist faster than any plague.”

Jamison’s eyes widened at Marion’s reply. He smiled, as bashful as ever, but returned the nod with renewed enthusiasm. “So, I found myself here. I had to take whatever opportunity I could, if it meant being heard.”

Marion’s attention began to slip again. Not because he wasn’t interested in the story this street urchin told, but because he _knew_ the tale already. He’d met many naïve dreamers and, when he looked in the mirror across the way—

A flock of tavern-goers blocked his view. He frowned and adjusted his cravat, offering a halfhearted wave. People liked to look at him, of course, so he let them stare. It made no matter. He returned his focus to Jamison, but the boy stared off behind him. Marion’s brow creased, and he turned toward a flicker of movement at his back. More onlookers surrounded him, whispering or gritting their teeth into silence. It looked as though he’d attracted another audience; it was only a shame he hadn’t prepared a routine for them.

Marion let his eyes sweep over their faces, his curiosity piqued. The toothpick hung loosely between his lips and his tongue toyed with the end of it. “Are you waiting for a song and dance?”

“I don’t know about the others ‘ere, but my buddies and I are waitin’ on the drinks you promised.” One bearded fellow from the head of the crowd spoke, and grumbles of agreement followed.

“Drinks.” Marion searched their faces. He almost corrected them, almost said he had no coin to spare, but his purse sat exposed on his hip, and the air around them reeked of alcohol. He glanced from his own petite frame, to the breadth of these men’s bodies, to a new sight: Freckles the cupbearer whispering into another man’s ear. _Oh. So that mouth is good for spitting insults_ and _spreading rumors. What do you hope to come of this, chéri?_

“What’re the cold feet for? Obvious you got enough to spare. I don’t see why you’d offer something if you’re just gonna go taking it back.”

Marion’s eyes flicked back to the man who spoke, and he opened his mouth to reply. A courtesan chimed in before he could.

“I hear you were looking for a friend to take home.” The escort hung off the arm of another. The two giggled amongst themselves and adjusted faux jewelry.

“Yeah. And I hear it’s the same friend _I_ was looking to take.” One woman, taller and more broadly built than Marion, glared. “Guess you got some shit to say about why you’re a better choice than me.”

“You’re picking up my tab too, ain’t ya? Hey.” One man appeared at his arm, tugging an elbow. Marion shifted away. His eyes narrowed on the serving boy across the tavern. Freckles’ arms crossed and he leaned against a wall, looking over the crowd with satisfaction. He came forward then, a fire in brown eyes.

 “Oh, I didn’t realize you gentlemen were friends.” Freckles sneered in a way that made Marion realize his misunderstanding: His charm didn’t touch this one after all. It hardly stood a chance against the hotheaded serving boy at Isaiah’s Tavern. “I’ll go ahead and combine the tabs.”

Marion bit his tongue. An arm swung around his shoulder as his audience swarmed close. Some claimed to be friends, others shouted complaints. Marion only smiled. He could appease them all with a drink. It was simple.

“Oh, yes. On me, of course! A beverage for all my new, dear friends! You hear that, bartender? The generous man in the golden vest is paying tonight. For everyone! Why not? It’s a night to celebrate!” He’d celebrate his victory over the serving boy. Celebrate the look on Freckles’ face when he realized his opponent would not run from this challenge.

Marion rattled his coin pouch and laughed as he stood. _You won’t even see me sweat, monsieur, watch closely. You’ve only earned me new friends._ He took the hands of one of those friends now. Both laughed as he danced in one smooth circle. He just caught a glimpse of Jamison’s disappointment as he whirled.

Then, his eye caught on Freckles’ once more. The boy still clung to an expression of smug triumph. He glanced at Marion’s coin purse as though evaluating how much sat within. _Plenty_ , Marion thought, _and none of it for you, rotten louse._

Finally, the boy shed his apron, threw back a shot of liquor, and raised the empty glass. “On you, right?”

Marion watched him leave, another burst of laughter flavoring the air. Was the stubborn server still convinced he’d won? Maybe he’d fled so he wouldn’t need to witness his failure. Either way, Marion welcomed the opportunity. He danced with unfamiliar people, passing each one off to a new partner whenever someone else wanted a turn. Now, he held a gawky boy in a satin gown, who talked far prettier than he danced.

“You should get a drink for yourself, sir. You’ve given out so many, you deserve some of your own.”

Marion’s eyes crinkled and he tapped the boy on an upturned nose. “How kind you are. Don’t worry about me, though. I’ve reached my limit.” Marion stumbled intentionally, and he and the boy both laughed as he straightened them up again. “I’m a lightweight, you see. I’d hate to get sick in front of all my new friends.”

Part of that was true: The drinking would make him sick. Which, all things considered, he wouldn’t mind doing all over the front of his server’s ugly brown vest. Of course, he hadn’t swallowed even a sip of his own. Not in years. Even if he missed it.

“A coin over here, love?” A serving girl waved her tray at him, and Marion laughed. His hand went into his purse.

It came away empty.

“Oh, dear.”

“Is something wrong?” the painted boy under his arm asked.

Marion remembered to smile and squeezed his waist. “We’re nearing morning now. I’m sure this place will be closing soon—”

“Not until the coin stops coming in.”

“Ah. So, it will close sooner than expected.”

“What’s that?” The boy frowned, confused, and Marion swept away from him. He gestured widely with an arm and his voice assumed a boisterous bravado.

“I’m afraid I must excuse myself, beloved friends. It was a privilege treating with you all. I can only pray we meet again soon.” He whirled on the heel of his boot, but someone caught the hem of his shirt. Another hand snagged the back of his jacket, and a voice begged him to stay a while longer. His fist closed over his deflated coin pouch. No amount of pleading could make him stay. This wasn’t his money. He would owe every cent back.

“Sir.” The bartender rapped his knuckles against a wooden counter. Marion made eye contact and cursed himself for it an instant later. “You have to pay for the rest of those drinks.”

Marion straightened up tall, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath. Held it. Then, he broke into a smile. He crossed over to the counter, heels clicking beneath the surrounding clamor. He strummed his fingers over the wood and gazed into the man’s eyes, feeling the draw of his pulse.

“Oh, business has already been booming tonight…” Marion purred. “What’s a few drinks on the house, hm?”

This was precisely how Warren had taught him. If he could just separate himself from the pounding in his chest, the irritation ringing in his ears, allow unsaturated seduction to sweeten his words…

“Uh. Sorry.” The bartender blinked and tapped the coin jar beside him.

A muscle shifted in Marion’s jaw. So, he hadn’t been alluring enough. That was just fine. He gazed deep into the man’s eyes and tried again.

“Oh, certainly, certainly.” He offered a breathy laugh. “Now, I do have a proposition for you, _mon cher_. That serving boy who was tending to us tonight… He seems to be more of a liability than an asset, no? What if we pull the charge from his tips? However sparse those may be.”

There was a long pause. Then, “That vest looks nice, if you don’t got the coin.”

Marion’s mouth twisted into a full scowl. He waited a moment, then his fingers curled and he wrenched off his vest, along with his half-cloak, and pushed both across the counter.

“Would you like my boots as well?” He all but spat the sarcasm.

The man frowned in consideration before peering down at Marion’s feet. “That’ll do.”

Marion straightened. His expression turned blank, his hands twitching. He could strangle this mortal. He really could choke the life from his lungs and— _But no. Look around you. There are too many people here. If you bare a single fang in this place… The poor are always the first to riot against unnatural threats. And._ And wouldn’t it be a shame if he had to wipe them _all_ out? Because he _could_. He could kill each one of them before their last sip of ale had time to settle. Marion swallowed deep.

“Here. These are fine leather, worth more than this entire establishment. Ah, and while we’re at it.” He twisted a ring from his hand, a fat ruby glistening in the torchlight. Metal clattered against wood as he tossed it down. “Tip my serving boy for me. Tell him he’s earned himself a very. Loyal. Customer.”

*

“Ahem.”

Marion halted at the base of the stairs. The light of a grand chandelier shivered over him. His hand clenched around muddied socks, and his collar flushed. Still, he glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

“Warren. Of course you’re home tonight. Of all nights.”

Calm crimson eyes stared back at him. Warren raised one pale brow, glanced at Marion’s bare feet, and turned. He swept from the room like a ghost. That was all Marion needed to set the fury in his chest ablaze.

“Goodnight to you too, dear friend. It is always _such_ a pleasure to hear from you.” Marion ascended the first few steps and leaned over the railing. His voice echoed back to him in the large, empty hall. He shouted louder. “My night was grand! Perhaps I’ll tell you about it over tea we can’t drink. Oh, and then I’ll fill you in on the past _six nights you’ve missed_. Would you like that?”

Marion waited. His words returned to him, quieter each time, before fading into silence. Below, he heard a door click shut. His eyes flicked to the letter he’d written, apparently untouched. A wry smile warped his lips. His grip on the railing tightened, and he leaned forward until his toes hardly touched the floor.

“Of course, I may as well be talking to my bloody _piano_ for all the company you provide! You—” He cut himself off. Whirling, he stormed to his parlor. He slumped onto his piano bench, straightened his spine, and he struck that off key.

Again.

And again.

And again, and again, until dawn began to creep through the trees outside.


	3. Auction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three is finally done, and only a day late! I think that's acceptable, given that this chapter is /three times as long/ as the first one. Wowie. Settle in and enjoy. A lot happens in this update. As always, thank you all for reading. Feedback is always loved and appreciated!

He'd won. Victory rushed in his veins and his body welcomed it, needed it like he had some deficiency. He stood with his back pressed to the tavern’s facade, listening to the social hum beyond the walls. The man may have looked it, but Gan doubted he was _truly_ made of gold. He would run out of coin eventually and, when he did, he’d have to deal with slighted drunks, proprietors who weren’t afraid to get physical. _Evidently._

Gan sighed and rubbed the memory from the back of his head. It didn’t matter now. His opponent got in a few good strikes, but he’d had the last lash. Liquor settled warm in his belly. He almost wished he’d drunk more, but no, the city nightlife was dangerous enough sober. He clutched his coin pouch at his side, unable to tie it around his belt without his bandana, and peeled away from the wall.

Streetlamps twinkled around him, a mockery of the faded stars above. This late, the streets were mostly bare, save for the occasional vagrant. Gan moved among them, ducking his face into shadow. Even still, he worried he stood out as an outcast or intruder. The streets owned him now, but that had not always been so, and he was still learning its law.

“Aye. Aye, boy. Dear boy. Over here. Please.”

Gan paused before the mouth of an alley. A strained voice puttered off into silence. It took him a moment to find who the plea belonged to. Darkness masked the woman’s features, deepened the hollows in her cheeks. Half her body hid behind the corner of a building. The rest was cloaked in rags. She spoke again through stained and shattered teeth, her lips trembling all the while.

“Yes. Hello. Oh, dear boy, would you help… My son is unwell. He’s a young’un, you see so? He’s not eaten for days. And so cold, all sudden. Terribly, nasty cold.”

Gan bit the inside of his cheek. He glanced backwards, saw nothing, and edged closer. “What’s wrong with him? I’m no doctor. I don’t know how you expect me to help.” Regardless, Gan continued forward, and concern flooded his blood with new warmth.

“Doctor, no, but the help of a kind stranger’s good as we’ll get out here. Don’t you know how that is?” Large, rheumy eyes flicked from Gan’s face to somewhere near his hip, and back. It was a brief gesture, but obvious enough that Gan felt it again: That sense of not belonging, despite how long he’d lived this way. Others could tell. “Besides, horrid devils visit at night. He musta been bitten by something foul.”

Gan snorted. Sometimes, the superstition favored by the lower class offered tempting explanations for the unknown. Still, his mother never tolerated such fantasies, and Gan grew to reject them just the same. “Don’t know about that, but I’ll come look.”

As he drew close, the woman’s mouth split on a crooked smile. Her eyes moved to Gan’s hip again. Frowning, he followed her gaze to his coin pouch. His hand spasmed over the worn material, the outline of coins. He didn’t have enough to afford a hospital visit, but if he could offer any aid at all…

A flash of metal caught Gan’s eye. His head snapped up and his gaze moved past the woman, penetrating the dark at her back. There, a second figure lurked, hooded by night. There was another glimmer of silver. A silhouetted blade. Gan tensed. The muscles in his legs tightened, preparing to launch him forward. This woman and her son could be hurt. The son was ill, the woman frail. Neither could protect them from a murder or a thief or—

 _Oh_.

“What is it, dear boy? I can’t move him. He’s ill and resting. You’ll have to come to his side.”

Gan took a jerky step back. His shoulders squared, and his eyes flicked between the woman and her cloaked accomplice. _A trick._ He tightened his grip on his purse. The figure shifted, impatient, and Gan retreated further.

 _I was going to help you_.

“Damn you.” The grinding of gears gnawed at his mind. He moved faster, only tearing his eyes from the pair to glance over his shoulder. There was another alleyway to duck down, so he did, only responding to the woman’s shouts with an echo. “ _Damn_ you.”

He remembered a time when he could pass by and drop coins into hats and bowls on the curb. He would buy food for skinny children and leave before anyone thanked him. He used to be able to trust those less fortunate than himself, to offer assistance in good faith. What had changed now that he lived among them? Was it that the sun always fended off the wicked, and Gan never traveled by nightfall back then? Had his previous status granted him some immunity? What _happened?_

His mind retreated to a simple, familiar thought: _This world is ugly_. That had been the first lesson Gan learned on these streets. Now, he was trying to unlearn it. It wasn’t the world that was ugly, wasn’t _the world_ that shattered his trust and stuck those defensive gears in his head; it was the people. There were plenty of places, unmarked by mankind, that still stood whole and pure.

The forest, for one, was beautiful at night. While only the most unsavory creatures prowled the midnight streets, the opposite was true of Gan’s wooded sanctuary: When the skies grew dim, divinities stirred among oak and fir. They were not Gan’s friends, were too ancient to care for a being small as he. Still, sometimes he would visit them, and they would whisper platitudes to help him through another week. He emerged from the mouth of the alley, willed his heart to calm, and strode on.

A sudden breeze bit Gan’s flesh, and he wrapped his arms around himself. Soon, snow would swallow the city. Cruel nights would grow longer. Everything would die, taking Gan’s drive—Weak as it already was—with it. He sighed a stream of mist. At least the paintings would be pretty.

Perhaps the forest would be the first of his winter muses. He drew up to its entrance, a grand, storybook thing. A blanket of leaves sprawled from its mouth like a tongue slick with saliva or rain. Briefly, Gan’s shoes lost traction, and he caught himself on mangled roots snaking underfoot. Moss crawled over each, lending them a serpent’s green camouflage. All around, moonlight painted a pale mosaic over the forest floor. Gan followed its glow, and the woods around him grew thick.

There was no path in this forest, so he made his own. He treaded lightly, measuring each step as he crunched over summer’s lifeless remains. The deeper he delved, the harder the terrain was to navigate, until finally, the trees began to part, and Gan heard the lazy trickle of a stream. He followed its whisper, let it lure him into a clearing. He lingered on the fringes of this glade, examining fallen acorns and stray feathers underfoot. Another breeze swept past, but nothing rustled under his gaze. It was all too heavy with rain.

He raised his head, then, and made unexpected eye contact. His breath caught, then stuttered out a moment later. He gazed on the face of royalty. A crown of antlers hung on the creature’s head. Velvet bone framed a face muzzled with white and grey. Powerful muscles shifted and twitched beneath an auburn pelt. The stag stared directly at him and Gan expected it to stiffen at his presence, to bolt away. Instead, Gan was the one that tensed, and the animal returned to its meal.

Gan shifted back a step, letting his shoulder rest against a tree. He watched the creature eat, oddly embarrassed. He felt like a voyeur to something unintended for mortal witness. People were supposed to see gods on their thrones, but the moment they stepped away to eat or sleep or partake in any other activity that brought them closer to the humans they governed, eyes were meant to be averted. Gan broke that rule. He withdrew into the trees again, after that.

A leaf descended on a delicate spiral of air. Gan's eyes followed that instead. All around, the forest stood sentinel. Nothing moved, save for this one petal drifting ever closer. At times, it teased the outer limits of its course, but it never strayed long. If Gan reached up, he could graze the curled edges, listen as its paper skin rippled beneath his touch. But he was a visitor in this vast wilderness. He stayed still, studying faint brown veins painted by Nature's thinnest brush. The leaf twirled past his cheek, a playful whisper against his skin. Then, it paused in its dance, suspended on a single breath. The forest sighed then, one collective rush of wind. The leaf swung along an arch and, at last, settled on Gan’s shoulder.

Gan nudged the leaf where it clung to his jacket. He lifted it gingerly by the stem and turned it in front of face. All at once, its color struck him. _Gold_. He tensed. A similar pair of eyes taunted him, and cruel laughter echoed in his mind. The golden man would not leave him. Not even now. And why?

He dropped the leaf. It tumbled down to join the rest, bright atop a bed of lifeless reds and browns. Something about that image reminded Gan of the golden man’s first visit: He’d been elegant, incandescent amidst the drunk and dull. Then he opened his mouth. Gan supposed that was how others felt about him, except he didn’t have glittering eyes and a winning smile to redeem him.

Feeling tired, he moved to a wooden stump and sat, resting his elbows on either knee. One hand scrubbed back through his hair, plucking absently at tangled knots. His thumb grazed a patch of dried paint at his temple.

_Quite the Renaissance Man, aren’t you?_

Gan exhaled, tilting his head back until it rested against rough bark. He touched his cheek where the man had poked him. He’d hated it. The gesture was presumptuous, condescending. Still, it felt…different, being touched in a way that wasn’t intended to harm or command him. There was a certain flamboyance in the way the golden man moved, and even his insults sounded flirtatious. Somehow, he navigated the tavern with a confidence Gan never possessed. He assumed money helped fuel that confidence, but Gan was wealthy once; it hadn’t done anything for him.

“Dammit.” Gan dragged himself to his feet. He didn’t understand why this stranger needled at his thoughts so persistently. There was some mystery surrounding him, Gan could admit, and he remembered how the atmosphere shifted and bent to accommodate his presence. Others swooned over him. Perhaps that explained some of Gan’s own resistance; he was sick of seeing rich folk wear the world like rings on their fingers. Irritation won out over fascination, but then, irritation often dominated Gan’s emotions these days. It breathed alongside the emptiness.

Gan heard the crunch of his footsteps before he realized he’d moved. He watched his breath mist and followed it where the breeze led. Before he passed the clearing of trees, he glanced over his shoulder. The golden leaf lay where he left it. He turned and marched ahead. If only he could leave the golden man behind so easily.

Maybe he would write him another letter. He replayed their last conversation in his head. Gan had been curt, likely threw the man into some measure of debt if his plan worked out. That wasn’t right of him. Of course, the man had backed Gan into serving him, spilled a drink and blamed him for it, got him into trouble with his boss and—

“Fuck that.” Gan kneaded at his forehead and kept walking. Denial and rage tangled together, pricking his core. No. The man would get no more letters. In fact, Gan was half tempted to shred the other one as soon as he got home. _He_ should be the one receiving an apology.

So why did he feel so _guilty?_

Gan drew up beside the little stream. Moonlight reflected on the water, hardly disturbed by ripples or currents. He knelt to retrieve a small stone, the surface smooth against his palm. He swung his arm at his side, back and forth, measuring his chances of skipping it. He’d done so exactly once before; every other time, he’d been too forceful.

_Renaissance Man, yes. Not an actor though. And not an athlete either. You lack a certain…finesse, don’t you?_

Gan’s teeth ground together. He reeled his arm back and hurled the stone clear over the river. It vanished somewhere among bare branches, and he didn’t hear it land over the sound of birds taking flight. Something hot crept beneath his skin and his hand clenched at his side.

_I used to teach etiquette classes, you know. Stone-skipping classes, too. Perhaps we can get you to execute this with a bit more grace next time, hm?_

He slumped back, stretching his legs in front of him. Dampness seeped into the seat of his pants. He took a breath, let it out slowly, and planted his hands in the soil beside him. His fists flexed in the dirt, his grip relentless, like the golden man’s hold on him. It felt inescapable, beyond his control, and he groaned when his face returned to mind. He reclined, resting his head on a cushion of foliage, and closed his eyes. He would accept the thoughts as they were, let them come and go.

_Mon beau. He called me beautiful._

Gan blinked his eyes open just as quickly. His face remained impassive while he scanned the moonlit canopy above. An ache lingered in his bones. It climbed to a screeching, pleading agony when he prepared to stand. He wanted to stay and rest, but rest would not come so long as gilded eyes kept invading his mind. He pulled himself upright despite his body’s protest and massaged the back of his neck, listening to bones pop.

Behind him, a twig snapped. His guard rose, and he turned slowly, blinking a few more times to adjust his eyes to the darkness. He saw trees, silhouetted against more trees and, there, a flicker of movement. He furrowed his brow, his chest rising on a shallow inhale, and stood his ground.

Black eyes glinted back at him. His first thought was the stag, but this creature was too small, delicate. A fawn. Gan held its gaze, startled by its curiosity in him. It watched him as he had watched its elder, a similar shyness in its stance. It hesitated, before the sound of approaching hooves drew its attention. Gan saw its head cock to one side, and the flash of white in its tail when it fled. He gazed in that direction a while longer, seeing nothing but shadow. He should leave, he thought. He was trespassing, and word was spreading among the wildlife.

Gan instinctively reached for art supplies, but of course, he’d brought none. He shook his head and tucked his arms around himself instead. He would return with his brushes and easel one day. Maybe if he sat still enough, he’d be able to paint the deer without disturbing them. Until then, it was time to head back.

*

Belle greeted Gan when he returned home. Green eyes gazed up at him from his desk. She mewed a few times, then, after determining he had no treats for her, went back to grooming. Gan stroked her ears as he passed, and she leaned into the touch before ducking away again.

“So fickle.” Gan moved to a stack of canvases propped against the wall. He set some aside and made mental notes to finish a few of them soon. When he found a blank sheet, he placed it on his easel. Belle hopped onto his bed, stretched, and mewed.

“Auction’s tomorrow,” he mumbled, inarticulate. His free hand fiddled with a fresh brush. He could try to complete one last painting for submission. It would mean one extra meal, if nothing else.

Gan tossed his coin pouch onto the bed. There was one sharp clash of metal on metal, but it didn’t jingle any more beyond that. Not like the golden man’s would have. Belle glanced at it with disinterest before moving to sniff it anyway.

“I won today, Belle.” Gan looked at the cat, twisting a jar of paint absently in his hands. “I beat him.”

Belle meowed her support before curling up to sleep. Gan nodded, and turned to start his work. But as hours passed and Gan let his subconscious guide his brush, he began to recognize his lie. The golden man was not defeated, not even close. He couldn’t be. Because when Gan stepped back from his finished piece, hands and face smeared with paint, golden eyes stared back at him. He was caught.

*

Gan dreamt of fruit bowls. Nightmares, really. The last four times he’d submitted work to the auction house, he’d left with his wallet as empty as before he’d arrived. Part of that had to do with the auctioneer, who demanded a cut of Gan’s earnings to continue displaying his art. That, Gan could tolerate. The rest of his money, however, was lost to portraits of fruit. Every time, people held off bidding until one of those dreadful paintings showed up. Maybe this one had two apples instead of one, or a banana in place of a plum. Perhaps the bowl was blue, or purple, or red, and that made it somehow _unique_. They all looked the same to Gan. Unoriginal and bland, even in sleep. He thought he’d rather dream of that cursed golden gaze.

He woke to Belle batting at his face with a tiny black paw. She meowed once, loudly, when his eyes opened. Then, with a chirp of approval, she skittered off the bed and over to the door. Gan sighed, looked at the boarded window she so often used as an entrance, then indulged her. She lingered at his feet, deciding whether to stay or go. Finally, she darted back in and leapt onto a shelf left by the previous owner. Gan slumped his shoulders and returned to bed.

“Should get up.” He spoke into the mattress, with no real conviction. But it was still early, and he’d stayed up well after sunrise. He buried his head in his arms and started to drift off again. He was only disturbed when Belle jumped onto his back to rest there. If he didn’t think too hard, he could pretend the weight between his shoulders was a hand. Comforting. Loving, maybe. He was too tired to scold himself for his fantasies. Sleep reclaimed him.

Gan spent his afternoon touching up artwork. Belle had gone sometime during his slumber, so he was alone with his thoughts. He kept them blank, mostly, and focused on the intricacies of his craft. Of course, if most blank minds looked like a clean, white canvas, someone must have dumped a bucket of black paint over Gan’s. It was still blank, but dark, and sometimes he stopped in the middle of a brushstroke, losing himself in it.

On his way to the auction house, he busied his mind with directions. He repeated them over and over, a silent mantra. His feet carried him automatically. They would have even if he’d been thinking of something else. Still, his wordless chant continued, distracting him from other invasive thoughts. When at last he arrived at his destination, he focused on the strain of his paintings on his back. He had to check them in.

“There you are, all settled. Next up! Come, come, our event begins on the hour. We haven’t time to dawdle!”

The auctioneer’s voice hit Gan’s ears before he’d even stepped past the curtains to see him. It was a jolly sound, warm and booming. Of course, the man had a lot of room to keep that big voice of his, with his full belly and padded cheeks. Gan stepped up to him next, shrugging the bag from his shoulders to reveal its contents. The auctioneer laughed to see him. Gan was growing to hate that sound, when it came from the rich.

“Oh, that’s good, that’s good. How many is that?”

“Six.” Gan examined the auctioneer’s attire. A three-piece suit dyed with rich navy blues. A silver pin rested on his lapel, and white gloves clung to his wrists, wrought with fine silk. Gan hadn’t changed his clothes that morning.

“Six! Goody. Twenty-five percent on all of those, and you’ll be living like a king for days!”

Gan blinked. His brow furrowed. “Twenty-five? It was thirty last month.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that!” the auctioneer laughed. Dark eyes crinkled when he smiled, his mustache quirked up with the gesture. He leaned down so his face was too close to Gan’s, his eyes glittering too brightly. “And this month, it’s twenty-five. For you? Twenty. And remember son, when you run your own auction house, you can set the prices.”

The auctioneer sounded kind, even as he shooed Gan away to greet the next artist. That had to be what Gan loathed most about the upper class: They were inauthentic, and their smiles could be honey or poison or both at once.

“Aren’t you a model citizen?”

Another honeyed voice stood out among the rest. Gan’s chest swelled on a frozen breath. He stilled, then peeled back the curtain to survey the audience. And there, illuminated by a cool, evening glow, stood the golden man.

Gan ground his teeth. He really couldn’t catch a break. That was fine. He’d just set up his art and leave. He could always collect his pay later. Of course, there would be even greater odds of being ripped off, but he thought he’d take his chances.

“The artists like me.” A boy walked beside the man. He didn’t look like the others, didn’t swoon or fawn. His face was young, but grim, and snow-white hair rested in a bun behind his head. Gan caught himself staring, entranced by the way he _moved_. But that was ridiculous. He shook his head.

“You’re less likable…” The boy’s lips scarcely moved when he spoke, and Gan had difficulty making out the last few words. _A name_. Gan cursed himself for missing it. _He’d called the golden man by name._

The golden man’s reply was much more audible. He spoke loudly, clearly, like an actor on a stage. Gan rolled his eyes to hear it. “People adore me, _chéri_ , I assure you.”

The paler of the two didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes flicked up. Met Gan’s. They were piercing, the color of rubies, and Gan lost his breath to see them. He staggered back, letting the curtain close before him. He had to leave.

“Hey, watch it.”

Gan felt a shove. He’d backed into someone, and their protest snapped him out of his strange stupor. He jerked his head around, venom forming on his tongue, but he recognized her face the same time she recognized his.

“Gan?”

“Rose. Hi.”

The auctioneer’s daughter gazed at him with wide, green eyes. Her mouth split in a small smile. Gan bit his tongue. That old command echoed in his mind: _Just be fucking polite_. His gears stuttered.

“We missed each other last time.” Rose looked him over, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Here, oh, let’s get this off of you.”

Gan stepped back when she reached to touch him. She frowned, and Gan realized what she’d been trying to do. “Oh.” He shrugged his bag from his shoulders, clutching it in front of him. He shifted his weight. “What should I—”

“You’re always hanging these up yourself. Let one of our workers handle them. That’s what they’re here for. We can talk, in the meantime.”

Gan shifted again, then turned to meet another boy’s eyes. He bowed under the weight of numerous portraits. Gan offered his own out awkwardly, and the boy’s eyes grew.

“Can you just—” The boy stopped once he recognized Gan’s company. Rose touched Gan’s elbow, smiled, and the boy set aside the load to make room for Gan’s instead. “Sorry. Didn’t realize you were important now.”

“I’m not.” Gan snorted at the boy’s mocking comment. He almost said more, but Rose took his arm. He stiffened, chewed the inside of his lip, but allowed the touch. She was a kind girl. And her father determined his pay.

“Father promised I could buy one of your paintings this time. He wasn’t happy about it. Says there’s greater talent among those of us with finer blood. But a little begging pays off.”

Gan snorted again. He could appreciate her honesty, at least. He let Rose guide him past the curtains, and his eyes darted over the buzzing crowd. He hadn’t seen where the golden man and his snowy-haired companion settled, but he found them quickly enough. They appeared to be engaged in some debate. Golden eyes flashed against an animated face, while the younger boy remained impassive, pale lips moving over silent syllables. Gan watched them until Rose tugged on his hand, urging him to sit beside her. He obeyed, looking instead to the first piece of art presented on stage. A fruit bowl. _Hurray_.

“Distinguished guests! What a magnificent evening we’re having. I will keep this brief, as I know you all have itchy palms. How could you not, after seeing our first breathtaking work of art!” The auctioneer laughed from behind his podium. Appreciative chuckles rose from the crowd, and Gan wagered the golden man’s voice was part of that mix. “We have a very fine selection for you to choose from. I daresay it’s the best we’ve had all year. So, you best bid on something while you can. The competition will be fierce, I know it! Remember, proceeds go to your very own local artists. Your support will allow them to continue their craft.”

 _A_ fraction _of those proceeds goes to the artist,_ Gan corrected. _The rest funds your glittering cufflinks and the gems at your daughter’s throat._ His eyes flicked to Rose’s collar, where glossy white pearls hung on a silver chain. One of those could pay his rent for a year.

“Without further ado, let us begin.” The auctioneer cleared his throat. His words, so calculated and inviting, turned to a rushed stream of sound. Somehow, he never lost a note of articulation. “Our first piece is up for taking, we’ve got how much, one, one hundred, that’s one hundred, can we go for—”

Gan craned his neck to watch the auction-goers. The auctioneer’s chant sounded hypnotic in the back of his mind. His elbow jerked when he saw the white-haired boy bid on the fruit. From the way he carried himself, Gan assumed he’d have better taste in art. Well, he never was skilled at reading people.

“Gan.” Rose touched his arm, and Gan resisted the impulse to lean away. He turned to her, even as her eyes remained fixed on the stage. “Which of your paintings is your favorite? I want the best.”

“Uh.” Gan shook his head. He thought of the meadow. The river and bridge. He thought of cerulean smudges adorning his hands, and painted skies born from the mess. Even now, he could feel wind in his hair, or rain on his skin, and the sun drying it soon after. His worries bled from the tip of his brush until nothing but mindless serenity remained. Choosing a favorite would be dishonest; each one held a special piece of his soul. One look at the girl’s impatience, though, and he knew she wouldn’t understand that. The clunking of gears reminded him he wouldn’t have been able to explain it even if she did. “The sunset I did is pretty nice.”

“The sunset,” she repeated, and turned her bidding stick in gloved hands. She rested against Gan’s arm, and he continued people watching.

So many donned vacant expressions, lulled by the drone of bids and counterbids. He noticed hands twitching, but not raising, once prices climbed too high. That, and the tightening around their lips when they lost, were the only signs that some of these people still lived. A breathless tension clung to the air, broken only by the murmurs of those uninterested in a current piece, or too poor to attempt a purchase. Of course, poor, at an event like this, still meant rich. Gan’s teeth clenched.

“There it is.” Rose’s whisper brought Gan’s attention back to the stage.

The portrait he saw there didn’t impress him; it was a false idol, mimicking something far more radiant. He remembered his muse, though, and felt flooded with warmth. Rose-colored wings spread from a brilliant halo of gold. Heaven’s flame kissed the horizon and left behind a blazing crimson trail. No pigment glowed as magnificently as that western sky. Even if Gan could capture some of that splendor, and grind it to dust with mortar and pestle, he would never lay it over a canvas. To do so would be sacrilege.

“Oh.” Rose’s hand faltered where it held her stick. She crinkled an upturned nose. “Here I hoped this would be an easy win. No matter.”

“Competition?” Gan glanced over his shoulder, and froze when he saw the man who outbid Rose once more. Golden eyes were locked on his painting, alight with some unreadable sentiment, while a wooden stick waved idly in the air. A scowl cut across Gan’s features. He pushed whispered words through clenched teeth. “Didn’t you spend enough money last night?”

The man’s friend must have wondered the same thing, because he gave him a warning glance. But why did the man want his painting in the first place? Gan didn’t understand. He must know it was his. Somehow, he knew. He wanted to buy it and burn it, just because he could, or paint over it, or bring it into the tavern and make fun of it, or _something_. Gan’s pulse quickened. He only realized he’d touched Rose’s shoulder when she stared at him, astonished.

“Gan?”

“Rose. I need to tell you something.” Gan swallowed when no one else challenged the golden man’s bid. He spoke quickly. “That sunset? I painted it with you in mind. Please win it?”

He tried to ignore the blush in her cheeks, the way her eyes widened and her lips turned up at the edges. He would write her a letter later. Right now, she needed to win. No matter what, she had to.

Ahead, the auctioneer rattled off numbers. Gan swore under his breath each time the golden man upped the price. Determination melted into distress on Rose’s face, and her bids started coming slower. Her free hand fidgeted with her purse. Gan hissed a low exhale.

“ _Going once!_ ”

“Come on, come on…” he muttered, watching the casual ease with which the man raised his stick. Once, those eyes met Gan’s, narrowed on a smirk, and Gan clamped a hand over Rose’s shoulder. “Rose, your father runs this whole thing. He can just _give_ you the painting. If you tell him you want it—”

“Gan, he already isn’t happy about us.” Rose rifled through her purse, exasperation straining her voice. Gan blinked at her phrasing, but she continued before he could correct it. “How do you think his business would fare if people found out he’d rigged the bidding in my favor? Oh, dear.”

“ _Going, going_ —”

Rose thrust up her stick at last second. The man countered her just as quickly. She shook her head after that, bit her lip, and Gan felt his heart sink. “Rose, keep bidding. Twenty percent of what you pay would go to me, but I just won’t take it. Your father can have it all. If you win—”

Rose threw up her hands in defeat. Crocodile tears glistened. “If you want me to have it that badly, you can paint me a new one.”

“No it’s—”

“ _Going twice!_ ”

“Gan, you brought six paintings, I can just buy another.”

Gan’s knuckles dug into his knees. “But this one is for you.”

“I can commission you for a sunset then. Really, I don’t understand why you’re making me pay in the first place.”

“That’s not the _problem_ —”

“ _Sold!_ To the gentleman with the gold brooch.” The auctioneer banged on his podium. The noise split the air with a note of finality. Gan’s expression withered. Cold realization washed over him and he slumped in his seat, kneading at the backs of his eyelids. He couldn’t watch as his painting was carried off stage and replaced with another, and couldn’t listen as Rose sniffled beside him. The only worse sound was that of the golden man’s laughter. Gan never wanted to hear it again.

Time dragged after that. Gan hunched forward, his chin propped on a palm, and did his best not to jerk away when Rose rubbed his back. Her spirits lifted after she won another of his paintings. She cradled it to her chest now because that was a favor her father _could_ do her: Offer Rose the painting to hold onto, even before the auction’s end. Gan glanced at the piece, a pinecone atop a bed of acorns. He was surprised more people didn’t bid on it—It almost looked like one of those _damn fruit bowls._

“And that, dear friends, patrons, and spectators, concludes this evening’s auction.” The auctioneer’s voice slowed to its regular, cordial pace. He clasped his hands together, smiling even as others muttered in dissent. “I thank you all so much for coming. If you didn’t win this time, come back again tomorrow. We have new material flooding in each night. So, even if you did win, you will never see the same work twice. Don’t miss out on the next treasures that await you.”

The auctioneer bowed his head before sweeping offstage. Gan stood as soon as he did. He had to collect his pay and get out of this place before anyone could talk to him. Before anyone could _gloat_.

Rose caught his arm before he got far. “Gan, wait. Aren’t you going to sign this for me?”

“You know I’m the one who did it. Why do you need a signature?” Irritability burst forth before he could tame it. Rose fell back a step, fair brows twisting up high on her forehead. She looked ready to cry again, fake or not. Gan shut his mouth, bit his tongue, and tried again. “I’ll do you one better. How about a…personalized note?”

“Oh. Yes. I’d enjoy that very much.” Her smile returned. Upon getting her way, all traces of sorrow vanished. Gan thought he understood her father better, in that moment. “Thank you.”

Gan sighed, gesturing sharply to a pavilion where winners, artists, and the people who wanted to meet them gathered. “I don’t like crowds. If you go get me a pen and ink—”

“I have one here.” Rose rummaged through the pocket of her skirt, then handed him something. “There you go.”

Gan turned the utensil over in his hands. The sleek, black body of a fountain pen reflected a name back at him. _Reid_. The letters were etched in golden cursive that caught the evening light. Its ink was self-contained and required no pot. He touched the tip, just to be sure, and pulled away with a black dot on his finger.

“Do you like it? You can have it. Father has been partnering with some manufacturers the next city over. They send gifts, sometimes.”

Gan nodded once and reached to accept Rose’s painting. He braced it against the bench and knelt to sign. He started with his initials. The sprawling _G. R._ offered mystery to his work. Besides, his true signature was reserved only for his letters. His pen lingered over the corner of the canvas.

“My personal note?” Rose urged, as though he’d forgotten.

“Yeah.” Gan ran a hand through his hair, the gears in his head doing nothing for his creativity.

 _Rose,_ he wrote, then paused. _Congrats on winning. Think of me whenever you see a pinecone._

He sat back on his heels, squinting at his own writing. Rose leaned down to read over his shoulder. Her words were delicate, with careful pauses for thought. “Oh. That’s…nice.”

He handed the canvas back, along with the pen. Rose’s mouth formed a protest, but Gan turned before she could voice it. Time to leave. He already stayed too long. He could return for his money the following night. It would be better than waiting around, hoping the auctioneer attended him before—

“Oh my. What a pleasant surprise, running into you here.”

Gan cringed. He rolled his shoulder, letting it crack, and kept walking. The voice followed close behind.

“And I do mean a _surprise_. Honestly, _mon cher_ , I could see you in a tavern—Maybe a brothel—but this whole scene is rather disorienting.”

Gan stopped, drawing up straight. He already knew he didn’t fit in here. It was obvious. But, _a brothel?_ He had the wrong tavern worker.

One step brought Gan around to face the golden man. In one arm, the man cradled a too-familiar painting. The other gripped a coin pouch that didn’t belong to him. In fact, Gan was sure he’d seen it hanging off the white-haired boy’s belt. His eyes sharpened, impatient.

“Mmm, you don’t look happy to see me. I’m sad.” The man frowned. His pain couldn’t last long, though, because delight brightened his eyes an instant later. “Regardless, what do you think of my new piece? Lovely, yes?” The man turned the face of the portrait outwards, so Gan had a better view. A finger pondered his bottom lip. “It’s a shame you couldn’t take it home… Even with the auctioneer’s little girl wrapped around your finger, doling out coin for you.”

Gan’s brow creased. He wasn’t sure he heard properly. He ran the line through his mind again. It greased the gears, helping them clunk along when Gan realized the man had _no idea_ whose art he now held. He had no idea at all. A sneer crawled over Gan’s lips.

“Oh, it’s great, yeah. You want me to get the artist to sign it for you?” His mouth curled wider. “You can have him sign it right over here, you know.”

Gan nodded at the pavilion. He started walking so the man had little choice but to follow. The man did, wonder creeping into his tone.

“This is very kind of you. You haven’t taken someone else’s lessons on etiquette, have you? I’m glad for your courtesy, but I’d be wounded to know I wasn’t your first choice.”

Gan led the man to a long table, ignoring his commentary. He found an empty space, an unclaimed pen, and turned with it in hand. Now it was his eyes that blazed with satisfaction. “Oh, sure, I’ll even sign it for _free_.”

Gan saw the man frown, noticed how his eyebrows betrayed his feigned indifference. He held his new purchase under candlelight, running a long finger over textured brushstrokes. At last, he shrugged. “I’ll take your autograph, sure, but why don’t we do that elsewhere? Leave the art for the artist to sign, hm?”

The man turned. Those dreadful golden eyes surveyed the crowd. Gan drank in the same scene. Well-dressed artists offered practiced signatures and handshakes to those around them. He wondered when the realization struck, if it had yet. He settled back against the table, amusing himself by watching the man’s face. This close, he could see the faint furrow in his brow, the dimple in his cheek when he stuck out his bottom lip. He noticed the beauty mark below his left eye, and the natural rouge coloring his cheeks, and the way the light played over hair spun from golden thread.

Gan shook the last thoughts away.

The golden man looked back to him. “You’re his apprentice then, I take it? The artist’s?”

He had to laugh then. To think, this man made him feel self-conscious at first meet. Now, his foolishness made Gan bold. “Oh, yeah, no. I haven’t had a teacher since I was very young. Flattering to know you think my work is beyond my years.” He dipped his quill in the ink and his smile dropped. “I was serious. You want my signature, or not? Either way, I want to hurry. Still need to collect all that money you paid me.”

The man’s face blanked. He looked as though someone struck an off chord on an instrument and the note settled wrong in the air. Then, he smiled too sharply and gestured to the bottom corner of his portrait. “I admit, I never had much talent for traditional art. I’m more of a music man myself. That said, I would like to learn, especially from an…artistic inspiration like yourself.” His smile stuck, didn’t waver, but nor did it reach those golden eyes. “Do you offer lessons?”

“Oh, _chéri_.” Gan reached to touch the man’s cheek, just as the man had done to him the night before. “I’m far too busy to tutor. Keep looking, though. I’m sure you’ll find someone eager to teach you in exchange for those etiquette classes.” He patted his hand once then withdrew, his expression dissolving into a grimace. He didn’t understand how the man could keep a façade like that going for so long; it was exhausting.

He took the painting without another word. The inside of his lip ached where he chewed it, focusing hard on the scrawl of his hand. _G. R._ looped and swirled in shimmering black ink. It was the best signature he'd done, had to be. Then he turned and didn't look back, even though he wanted to. While he walked, he could imagine the way the man's jaw slackened with shock, picture the harsh arch of his brow. It was an image he wouldn't mind immortalizing on canvas. The face of triumph, for the second night in a row.

He would return for his payment some other time. If he stayed any longer, it would only allow more opportunity for the tides to turn. He left the auction house and the golden man behind, vowing he'd only come back to one.

A late evening sky cast violet accents over the city. People still roamed about, and it seemed the wicked had not yet woken. Of course, as he recalled, evil rarely touched this side of town, even after sundown. The auction house stood tall among refined churches and academies. The streets were well-groomed, the residents ethereal. If Gan felt an imposter in the slums he called home, he certainly didn’t belong in these parts either.

It wasn’t until Gan reached that limbo between new and old, rich and poor architecture that he started to feel at ease. The crowds thinned out here and, despite everything the streets had taught him about strength in numbers, the perils of walking alone, a deeper part of himself yearned for the solitude.

When he heard footsteps behind him, he knew he wasn’t as alone as he preferred.

Gan kept walking. His shoulders remained hunched, his head bowed while he went. His eyes lingered on the road ahead, but all of his focus centered on sound. His ears perked to the rhythmic tapping of boots on stone. They slowed when he slowed, and hastened when he gathered speed. After some time, he turned onto a mostly vacant side street. The footsteps followed.

He remembered a flash of silver the night before. The threat of a blade meant for him. His heart tripped over a beat, but the footfalls still mirrored his pace. He was being trailed, but not chased. He could navigate that; he knew what they wanted. His hand went to the coin pouch wrapped around his belt with a fresh bandana. He unhooked it carefully, noticed how light it was, and felt grateful for once. He leaned down and dropped the pouch midstride.

He reached the edge of the street and paused to listen. The steps didn’t falter. Gan’s breaths came quick. Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out the sound. He twisted his head around, heart leaping, and saw nothing but the coned glow of a streetlamp. He chased the light up into the sky. Stars struggled into sight, and his eyes caught on a particularly bright one. He just had to follow it home, stop letting phantoms play tricks on his mind.

He shook his head and hooked his thumbs into his pockets. It was a beautiful night, peaceful, and he was just paranoid. He stepped forward to retrieve his coin pouch—And found it gone, consumed by the dark of the city. He blinked a few times, glanced around. Hadn’t it been there just before he’d turned his gaze upwards? No, it must have vanished before then, stolen by whatever criminal had pursued him. He sighed a long exhale and faced forward once more.

A silhouette blocked his view. His breath hitched, hands fisting at his sides. He took a step forward, eyes cutting through the blackness to make out some features, to give humanity to this veiled creature. It shifted, and his legs tensed, ready to lunge.

“Oh, now, none of that.” The voice was familiar, and an even more familiar face followed it into the moonlight. Gan’s blood surged, charring his veins, and the golden eyes that smiled back at him were the source of that heat. “You’re a lovely painter, _Monsieur_ ‘G. R.’”

Gan cursed himself for being wary. It was just him, just the prick from the tavern who couldn’t accept a loss. Except, the atmosphere shifted in some strange way. Tiny hairs rose on the back of Gan’s neck, his arms, and the air felt thicker somehow. He stared at the man’s face, challenging, but something predatory lit that gilded gaze. Gan slid back a step, didn’t look away.

But he must have blinked because, suddenly, the man stood before him. He’d moved as though weightless, a beam of sunlight dancing between velvet curtains. And, to some, sunlight was deadly. Gan startled, staggered back, but cold fingers pressed into his hips, caging him.

 “Are you a writer too? A reader?” A slow grin brightened the man’s face. Gan didn’t often feel confident reading people’s expressions, but this one he recognized: Hunger. “Tell me, what are some of the most fearsome monsters you’ve read about?”

 “What? You’re so pissed you spent all that money on an amateur’s work, you want payback now?” The words bubbled forth without thought. They were reactionary, a shield he wielded clumsily. He tried to wrench from the man’s grip. Couldn’t. Alarm twisted his gut, even as it fueled his tongue. “Oh, or maybe it’s that thought you brought up, seeing me in a brothel, got you curious. Yeah? It’s my work for sale. Not me. Hands off.”

“Hands off…” The man chuckled, and manicured nails dug into Gan’s hips. “Insolent to the last breath, aren’t you? Oh, it’d almost be admirable if it weren’t so embarrassing. What tragic backstory drove you to such social ineptitude?”

“None of your business,” Gan snapped back. The gears roared in his ears now, tearing logical thought to shreds of annoyance. Of fear. He’d been chased in the streets before, angered the wrong guy and ended up bloodied and bruised outside some bar. This was different. His strength felt sapped. His fists twitched once before loosening at his sides.

“Hm.” The man frowned. His eyes flicked to one of Gan’s, then the other, and back. Something heavy scorched the air between them. A hand curled over Gan’s cheek, and he hissed as nails raked across his skin, splitting it into thin, red streaks. The man studied the marks, traced a thumb over them. Gan stilled. “Will you at least tell me your name, so I know which gravestone to search for when I visit you?”

Gan’s breath fled his lungs. His skin felt hot, even as a cold trickle of sweat found the back of his neck. This man was going to _kill_ him? Why? Over a painting? For embarrassing him? This was the same man who fussed and whined over a spilled drink. A man who moved with such whimsical grace, he seemed more accustomed to a stage than reality. Gan never would have imagined him to be capable of murder. Now, something warned him otherwise.

“But… If I tell you my name, won’t you be done with me?” He let helplessness seep into his tone, even as it made him cringe. The gears sputtered, stuck, and he swallowed hard. “Things are way more interesting with you around. And since you’re curious, you’ll come back for my name if I don’t tell you. Right?”

He’d seen the other tavern workers use similar tactics to win coin. He only hoped it would prove effective enough to win his life.

“You’re not seriously going to kill me over such petty fights. Not when I’ve been so much fun, huh?”

He hesitated but couldn’t put his arms around the man. The grinding of stuck gears wouldn’t allow it. The man noticed the twitch in his bicep and smirked. Heat flared in Gan’s chest, urging him to lash out in response. He couldn’t, though. Not now. He shoved that reflex away.

“I haven’t even gotten your name,” Gan went on. Nausea crept through him. The man’s own condescending act had been hard enough to imitate. This one unsettled the very core of his being. “What kind of end would that be?”

The man’s brows turned up, as though apologetic, and he offered a sheepish smile. “How foolish of me. You really were a diplomat all along. Just had to scare you into it first.”

Gan stared hard at the man, leaned forward so the hand at his hip pressed between them both. He knew he looked as uncomfortable as he felt. He’d never learned how to train his face like most of his peers. The man only laughed.

“Oh, and look at you, trying to talk your way out of this.” The hand ran from Gan’s hip to his ribcage, where Gan knew he could feel the thunder of his heart. “It’s almost convincing.”

“Wouldn’t you do the same in my situation?” Gan grit his teeth and moved his hands to the man’s hair. It was gorgeous, golden curls that caught the moonlight and held it captive in its strands. He stroked once, too firmly. “Talk?”

“Oh, yes, but I’d do a much better job at it.” The man grinned a wolf’s white grin. “Sadly, you see, this whole time you thought you were the clever one. After all, there were so many instances where _I_ didn’t know what was happening. _I_ didn’t know you were going to spread rumors about me at the tavern, didn’t know I was bidding on _your_ painting. Now, though… I’m afraid it’s you who doesn’t know your situation.”

The man’s smile widened and there, glinting like the stars above, Gan saw the pointed tip of a fang.

“Should I say it out loud for you? I didn’t think that would be as much fun, but…”

_He musta been bitten by something foul._

Gan knew the stories bred in the slums. Every time someone died without explanation, the myths reemerged. There were demons, the townsfolk insisted, with bites deadlier than any plague. They traveled by night and seduced their victims. They appeared hideous when they did not feed, but that was only speculation; none had seen a vampire hungry and lived to tell of it.

Something snapped, and the gears kicked back into motion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

His thoughts turned to the wealthy folk he once knew, with their newborn reverence for science and fact. He preferred that model of thought. It made sense, felt safe. Now, he knew no scholar could explain the golden man, with his strange allure, or the wicked thirst in his eyes. _Ignorant_. _They were never enlightened, and neither was I, but ignorant all along._

“Fuck off.” Gan tightened his hands in the man’s hair and pulled, hard. “Monster. _Devil_.”

The creature hissed, wrenched away, and Gan thought he’d gotten free. He whirled, collided with a wall of silk clothing. A hand snatched up his own hair, dragging him backwards. He gasped, struck out with a fist, then a leg. He felt a shove, stumbled as the beast drove him off his feet. His head smacked hard against brick. Sparks flew behind his eyes. He groaned, tried to find his footing. Something jerked him forward. Slammed him back again. Pain exploded in the base of his skull, and his eyes fluttered. He slumped beneath the hand at his throat, heard a chuckle, and knew it was over.

“Ganymede.” The name left Gan’s lips in a strangled whisper. He blinked and golden eyes swam back into view. “Tell the Reids in the city west of here that Ganymede is dead.”

“Ganymede… Just like the stories.” The man smiled, almost fondly. “Zeus’s cupbearer, immortalized in the constellation Aquarius. Although, you strike me as more of an Icarus. Flew too close to a golden sun, didn’t you?”

A vocalized breath trembled from his lungs. He licked his lips and tasted blood. If the stories were true, he wouldn’t be the only one doing that tonight.

Before him, the golden demon shrugged, sneered. “The Reids are important people. Will they even miss you?”

Important people. He knew the name, then. Gan wondered which stories he’d heard of the great George Reid. He was a clever businessman, who embraced risk and navigated it well. He was a philanthropist, who shared his earnings with the impoverished and infirmed. He was an adulterer and abuser and crook. Gan doubted he knew those last tales, though.

Not for the first time, he wondered if George Reid was also a man who would miss his son, after he was gone. He knew the answer. Still, a small, hopeless part of him clung to the fantasy. It was the same part of him that hoped they’d understand when he didn’t want to marry Julianna. The same part that hoped the red-headed merchant boy would return his kiss. After all, if demons could drink peoples’ blood by black of night, perhaps some parents could mourn an unloved son.

_Would they miss me, though?_

“I think I might.” The words tickled the underside of Gan’s jaw. His chin tilted back, and he watched the stars twinkle overhead. He had to save himself one embarrassment; he wouldn’t let those golden eyes see him cry.

“Oh—” Something pierced his neck. _Fangs_. It stung, and then the pain dissolved into something sweeter. Liquid warmth washed over him and his lips parted to feel it. The man pressed his body close, and Gan felt the steady swell of two hearts pulsing as one. A thick haze clouded his mind, and he welcomed it. His eyes lulled back to watch a bird catch the wind on black wings. Obsidian skies sung to him, and his spirit sung back. This wasn’t how he imagined death to feel. He liked it.

“Wh…” Gan swayed on his feet. A golden blur moved away from him. It carried his pleasure with it, leaving him cold. _No._ He saw a pale hand reach for the threads of that sensation, trying to pull it back to him. He felt something wet on his collar, touched it, and his hand came away red. Then he was on a knee, and the ground rose up to cradle him. It felt soft. He liked that too.

Most of all, he liked the golden eyes that followed him into darkness.


	4. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Now that I'm back in my university classes, I will be updating once every other weekend. That means, new chapters will always be posted every other Sunday night /at the latest./ Thank you all for reading, and as always, feedback is cherished and appreciated!

The black corridor swallowed sound. Every footstep fell, muted, on an ornate rug. That rug stretched past doors that opened to vacant rooms. It was such a big house. So spacious. So  _ empty.  _ Even the portraits mounted around him stared with absent expressions. If he were an artist, he would never paint faces like that.  _ And he would never paint fruit bowls. _

A mirror waited at the end of the hall. It was a grand, sumptuous thing with clawed feet and sprawling bronze accents. He approached and peered into it. No one looked back. He kept walking.

The scratching of a quill pen beckoned to him. It was the loudest noise he’d ever heard, clawing bloody scores into his ears. He covered them, and the sound gnawed at his mind instead. He followed it, even as it repelled him.

“Father.” Silence splintered around him. The pieces fell away, jagged shards on the office floor. It was dark inside. Polished woods and dolls with austere faces greeted him. The corner of the desk was harshly cut, and its chair sat at an impossibly strict angle. A man occupied that chair, though his face remained doused in shadow. He continued to write.

“Go on, Matthew. I’m working.”

“That’s not my name.” It was a boy’s voice that left him, high-pitched and delicate with youth. He felt himself frown and turned his hands over in front of his face. They were pale, small, and that’s when he realized everything around him was growing. A grandfather clock stretched toward the ceiling, rising as tall as the oak used to carve it. Shelves crept high on the wall, out of reach, and glass eyes the size of serving platters glared at him. He hated the dolls. They were too perfect; though, he supposed that was why they never smiled. It was hard, being perfect all the time.

The man grew too. His legs, his arms, the breadth of his chest, even his freckles grew. When he finished, he looked like a giant from one of those  _ ridiculous fairytales  _ he refused to let the nannies tell. His words remained soft, even as some thunderous force swelled beneath them. “It’s one of your names, isn’t it? I only agreed to the other to appease your mother. You know that. You’re Matthew to me.”

But he was not Matthew. That was his middle name. He couldn’t remember his first, but he knew it wasn’t  _ Matthew _ .

“Are you arguing with me?”

He stumbled. He hadn’t spoken, had been careful not to. Still, he couldn’t say  _ no, he wasn’t arguing _ , because then he’d be talking back. If George Reid made an assertion, it was true. That was it.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.”

“ _ Quiet _ .” His hand, huge, tightened over long strips of leather. He gathered them in his palm, and the ends dragged heavy warnings across his desk. “Or, if you want to keep making noise, I’ll give you a reason to.”

He couldn’t run. Wouldn’t, even if his feet weren’t suddenly cased in lead. He knew better. He stood still, even as cold tremors wracked his body, urging him to flee. The man he called father, but who was embarrassed to call him son, advanced. Already, he felt the skin on his back shredding apart. The wounds wept harder than he did, and their tears were  _ hot _ . He didn’t know why he liked wearing green so much—It made the red so visible. The man raised an enormous arm on a backswing.  _ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. _ His throat spasmed around unshed whimpers until he sunk down, down, and the floor crested up to consume him.

He was drowning, he thought, but he inhaled the darkness anyway. It stuck to his insides, a thick, cloying heat. Maybe it would suffocate him. Then he could sleep, untouched by nightmares. He closed his eyes.

But there, behind his eyelids, he saw a woman. Her hair was dark and pinned in intricate braids. Her eyes shone blue, and why couldn’t he have inherited hers instead? They looked at him without seeing, as they always did.

“Ganymede? How are your studies? You haven’t picked up that violin in a while.” Her expression lacked warmth. She gazed straight at him, knew there was blood on his back, blood on his neck, but she still didn’t  _ see. _ She didn’t care to.

He saw, though. He saw the bruises on her arms and the spot on her face where her makeup was heavier than the rest. “Mom,” he croaked through the sludge. “It hurts.”

“What’s that, Ganymede?” She frowned. “I told you not to mumble. We’ll have to bring Elena back to help with your speech lessons.”

He bit his tongue. He didn’t like Elena. She put hot stones in his mouth when he slurred his recitals. “Sorry.”

“I hung one of your portraits.” Blue eyes brightened then. She turned, gesturing with a graceful sweep of the arm. “Come and see.”

His chest tightened. “You kept my painting?”

His mother didn’t answer, but the darkness swirled and then she stood beside him, guiding him by a wrist. He looked down and his breath caught. They walked on nothing but blackness. His heart lurched with every step, certain he’d plummet into empty space. He wouldn’t be so frightened, except he knew the fall would never end. He would spiral forever in that abyss.

“Look. You captured her likeness so well. Except, her eyes are blue, Ganymede. Not green. She’d be upset with you for that.”

He stared at the character in the portrait. Copper hair mirrored the evening sun. Pale skin peeked through gaps in painted foliage. And it was true, green eyes glittered back at ‘her’ audience. Only, she wasn’t a woman at all. “You think that’s Julianna, don’t you?”

_ You can see his boat in the background, filled with merchant’s goods. _

“Go talk to Juli. She’s been waiting for you.” Ringed fingers prodded between his shoulder blades and he staggered forward. He bumped the canvas and it clung to his skin, leeched at him. He shouted. His mother turned, forgetting he was there. And then he really wasn’t there, because the painting swallowed him whole.

Streams of yellow light filtered through the leaves. He raised his arm, and it highlighted his skin with a dull sheen of color. Of course, it was too dim; no paint could capture the magnificence of a golden sun.

_ Golden _ . The word gave him pause. His heart tumbled over itself, though he didn’t understand  _ why _ . Confusion and panic twisted together, barbed snakes in his gut. He didn’t know which felt worse. At least if he understood the source of his dread, he could try to soothe it. Instead, he floundered in not knowing until his knees buckled and his breaths came in ragged gasps.

“Hey. You look like you’re having a hard time. Can I help?”

Something touched his shoulder. Pain ricocheted up his neck. His veins caught fire, blazing with white, blinding anguish. He winced, whined, and just like that, it ended. A hand rubbed grounding circles into his back. He was naked.

“Hey now. Cool down a second, yeah? Breathe. Gan. Can you look at me?”

Unseen needles pricked beneath his skin. His skin, entirely exposed to whoever stood behind him. It flushed red, red as the blood dripping down his back and collarbones. Red as—

_ His hair. _

“What have you gone mad for? You’re alright. I like the freckles on your shoulders.”

He raised his head slowly. First, he noticed a bright crown of flora; orchids wove into peonies, and hydrangeas cradled carnations. A monarch butterfly found its throne atop a cluster of chrysanthemums. New buds continued to blossom in a bed of auburn hair.

“Liam.” His voice was his own again. He stood taller, though still not as tall as he’d like, and his childhood apprehension was replaced with a strange, shy ache. He covered himself with his hands. “I thought you had to go. Did the ship leave without you?”

The merchant boy laughed. His eyes reflected sunshine that almost looked authentic after all. “You wanted to kiss me before I left, didn’t you? Don’t look so embarrassed. No one’s watching, remember?”

He might have believed that once, might have embraced the illusion of privacy. Now, he knew better. There were eyes all around.

“Oh, sure, they’re looking at you,” Liam allowed. “But do they ever really _ see _ you?”

The boy kissed him before he could answer. He lost his breath, and when he opened his mouth to catch it, a warm tongue met his. It was more than he’d asked for, more than he permitted himself even in dreams. But then again, he supposed, maybe not.

_ Fuck it _ .

He closed his eyes. Skin flushed against his own. This time, when his lips parted, it was with purpose. He stroked along the swell of a bottom lip, and his hand found the place where hip met thigh. The world dissolved until he was only aware of two sets of lips, two rushes of hastened breath. A palm fell over his chest.

“See,” a voice said. “You like women just fine. Your heart is racing.”

His eyes shot open. A slim chain dangled from a pale neck. Attached to that, an engagement ring rested between bare breasts. He recognized that ring. He’d given it to her. He’d  _ had _ to.

“Julianna.” His voice sounded small, strained, and he touched his lips where Liam’s had been. The woman appraised him through long lashes, eyes bright with unspoken humor. She didn’t ease up from his chest, and he felt too cold to lean away. “I thought—”

“You like women just fine,” she repeated. Then, in one delicate hand, she revealed a bundle of leather strips. Her nails, painted with pastel gloss, dug hard lines into the material. “If you don’t, your father said I could use this. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“ _ No _ .” He jerked back. Nausea rolled over him, blurred his vision. When he opened his mouth on another protest, he found his tongue wet with blood. It flooded his mouth and he gagged on it. His throat convulsed around thick gulps of red. He coughed, splattering Julianna’s collar with glistening crimson beads. He tried to apologize, couldn’t, and his neck began to burn. His chest heaved on a sob, and Julianna clawed at the flesh there. She was reaching for his heart, prying his ribs apart in her search, but he knew she’d never find it. He’d already given it away.

“You must have something in here for me. Even dead men have a heart.”

_ Am I dead?  _ He tried to ask, but all that sounded was a gurgle. Julianna grinned in response. Her canines were sharp, ivory blades set behind blood-stained lips. Then, she blinked, and it didn’t matter that he’d painted her eyes green instead of blue, because they weren’t blue at all.

They were gold.

*

Gan sat upright with a gasp. Air tore into his lungs like he’d been starved of it. Ice water rushed his veins, made him tremble. He wrenched onto his side, choking on blood that wasn’t there. He pressed his forehead to cool stone and his nails curled into it, clawing until he wore the tips of his fingers raw. His heart beat in erratic bursts, fast and then slow, hard and then faint. He sucked down a few long breaths, exhaling broken consonants. At last, he groaned, turned onto his stomach, and crumpled once more.

The ache in his neck throbbed in time with his pulse. He pressed a hand to it, feeling his fingers quiver where they rested. He felt sick. The world churned around him, melting into strange new slopes and slants. His eyes lulled back before fluttering open. An orange gradient crept along the street, coaxing long shadows out of hiding. He squinted at the eastern sky. A scarlet sun peeked over the horizon. He’d been out too long. It was a wonder he was still alive.

_ If  _ he was still alive.

Gan staggered to a knee. His hand came out to steady himself against a brick façade. His stomach clenched, and he grit his teeth against the fluid unease moving through him. A film of cold sweat glistened on his skin. His shaking only worsened when he pulled himself upright, grunting as he slumped against the wall.

_ A dream. How much of that was a dream? _

His fingers scrambled over his neck, prodding, until he felt something that made his stomach drop: Twin puncture wounds, already scabbing over.  _ Not a dream, then _ . He hesitated, then reached along his back, seeking gashes. He knew there wouldn’t be any, felt silly for checking, but when he found his skin unmarked, relief took him all the same.

“Shit.” The ground swayed beneath Gan’s feet. He clung to the wall, dragging himself along the way. His knees buckled, and he caught himself at the mouth of the alley. A black haze threatened the edges of his vision. He lost a lot of blood. He was going to pass out again.

He woke up panting moments later. His forehead bled where he’d scraped it against brick on his way down. He clenched a fist, shoved himself upright, and kept walking. The streets swam in his sights. He noticed faces in his peripheral, passed them by. Once, they might have helped him. Once, when his clothes were fresh and his pockets sung with coin, someone may have offered a hand or a warm place to rest. Now, he looked the same as any town drunk. He swore when he stumbled into a wheelbarrow pushed by a young boy. The child gawked, and Gan limped ahead.

Consciousness faded in and out. Sometimes, Gan remembered standing in one place, and came to halfway down the road. It was difficult to know if he headed in the right direction. Some buildings looked familiar, others distorted and strange. Then, his eyes locked on a place too comforting to be forgotten. His heartbeat quickened, and his temples throbbed with the sensation. Home. Just a few more steps, and he would be home.

Gan blinked awake in a daze. He didn’t remember making it to his porch, and he didn’t remember fainting overtop of it. Yet, there he lay, listening to a high, feral yowl. He swallowed dry air and sought the source.

“Belle…” Gan sighed and stretched an arm to her. The little black cat withdrew into the bushes, eyes wary. Then, when Gan clicked his tongue and rubbed weak fingers together, she moved to sniff at him. “Yeah. I know.”

He must have started losing consciousness again, because Belle swatted at his face. A nail caught the skin of his nose, splitting it, and Gan hissed. Belle darted back into the shrubs.

“Hey. You’re fine. Fuck…” Gan sat up, holding his head in both hands. “Gotta trim your nails.”

He reached for the knob above his head, twisted it. With a grunt, he hauled his weight against the door. It popped open and Belle bolted inside, using his lap as a springboard. He snorted. “Glad you’re doing okay.”

He pushed himself halfway to his feet, shuffling past the threshold, and used the last of his strength to shut the door. Then, he collapsed on pine flooring. At least this time, he expected the darkness to claim him. With no nightmares chasing him, he welcomed that black slumber.

Gan slept, and woke, and slept again. At some point, he’d moved to his bed. At another, he’d gathered a squirming Belle into his arms and refused to let her go. She settled into the hold after a time. He needed it, particularly once his fatigue gave way to fear, and recognition emerged from the vertigo. He’d been bitten.

_ By something foul. _

He pressed the pad of his thumb to a canine. It felt normal. He checked the others around it and none appeared sharper than usual. He had no fangs. The sunlight hadn’t scorched his skin. He hadn’t died. So, why? If the golden man hadn’t wanted to kill him, or recruit him into his demonic ensemble, what was the point?

He should have killed him.

Hot tears welled in Gan’s eyes. Shock turned caustic inside him. He hid his face in black fur, and Belle shifted. He held her tighter. The shaking started deep in his bones until it rocked outwards, possessing him entirely. His breath hitched once but quieted after that. He was too weak, even for this. He needed to eat. Needed to get to work and collect his pay from the auction and start rebuilding his finances. That single coin pouch was all he had. Now, he wondered if any fruit still clung to the trees outside. He would check tomorrow. For now, sleep beckoned, and he returned to it, even when it promised more terrors.

*

“You heard me, boy. You missed three nights. You’re out.”

Gan blinked. All around him, lanterns burned, and drunkards howled with laughter or rage. His head still buzzed with hunger and dehydration, but the rotten stench pervading the air spoiled his appetite. He would never miss these sights, sounds, and smells. The coin, though—Sparse as it was, it kept him alive.

“I told you. I was attacked. I physically could not have worked, even if I’d shown up.” There was an edge to his voice. He usually worked harder to silence the gears around his boss. Now though, they clicked away, well aware of the hopelessness of his situation. Any fight he put up was merely for show. He already lost, and he knew it. “I’ve been a loyal employee for over a year. You’re really going to replace me now?”

The man shrugged. He had a hard set to his face, a frown that suggested he didn’t like debates. “Already have. Someone a li’l more agreeable took your place. Patrons don’t want a snappy bastard like you waiting on ‘em anyway. And boy? Maybe you wouldn’t get attacked if you learned to shut that mouth of yours.”

Gan did shut his mouth then. His teeth clamped around his tongue, and the pain reminded him to stay quiet. Stop making noise  _ before he was given a reason to _ . He only allowed himself a scoff on his way to the bar stand.

“Bram.” He rapped his knuckles on the counter, and the bartender snapped to attention.

“What can I get ya, yeah?” His words slurred, and his eyes still glazed over from his nap. Drool pooled on the wood where he’d lain his head. He straightened, rubbed at the back of his neck, and groaned when he recognized Gan. “Oh, come on, lord muck. You leave us short-staffed for three nights and now you wanna be friendly?”

“Yeah? Well, looks like Boss fixed the shortage of staff members quickly enough.” He ground the words out, didn’t meet Bram’s eyes when he said them. He knew they would be laughing at him, amused by his misfortune. He couldn’t stomach that; not while the gears were chugging along to a vulnerable halt. His speech came soft, stilted. He worked the words slowly in his mouth. “Bram. I was mugged. I lost a lot of blood, and a lot of coin. You know I would have been here if I could. You’ve seen me work.”

The man watched him with wide, dark eyes. “Aye.” He turned, poured a glass of ale, and slid it over. “That’s tough, Chuckaboo.”

Gan snorted a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Tough.” He lifted the glass, turning it in front of his nose.

“Oi, just drink it, would you? You already lost your job. You can’t keep trying to do mine anymore.”

Gan shrugged, shook his head, and threw the drink back. It burned when it went down, but that was mostly a result of his parched throat. He hissed through his teeth, then leaned on the counter and looked over the crowd. The glass balanced between his fingers.

“Can’t be so bad. You sell your little drawings and shit, don’t ya?”

“Tch.” Gan turned his head away. “Auctioneer’s a swindler. Spent all my earnings on a new podium. I didn’t ‘get back to him fast enough.’”

“Ah.”

Silence stretched. Slowly, the gears clunked back into place. His defenses rose. Despair turned to anger: At his boss for laying him off. At the auctioneer for exploiting his work and stealing his pay. At that golden devil for taking everything else from him, and not even having the mercy to finish the job.

And at Bram, for offering him  _ nothing but a shitty drink _ .

“Guess I didn’t really expect you to do anything about it. I’ll go fuck off.” He set the glass aside and stepped away from the counter. His hands thrust into otherwise empty pockets. He had to fill them somehow. He could go to the market square, try to sell his portraits himself. Except he didn’t quite have the charisma for that, did he? He could find some laborer to take pity on him, pick up a new trade for a meal here and there. Not that anyone would find a cretin like him worthy of sympathy. Hell, even a brothel didn’t sound like such a poor—

A sharp whistle cut through his thoughts. “Oi, you sorry bloke, bring your ass back here. I’d say bring the rest of you too, but I think ‘bring your ass’ covers all the bases. Hey.”

“Coming,” Gan snapped. He pushed back toward the counter and ground his knuckles into the wood. “What?”

“Don’t get snippy now. I was just on my way to feeling bad for ya.” Bram paused. He shuffled his feet, and that’s when Gan noticed something different about the man’s usual drab attire.

“Is that a new vest?”

“Look, so, I was going to sell this. Give it to a pretty girl, maybe. But ah. Well, have a look.” Bram turned his back to rifle through his pockets. Gan squinted at his clothing. Definitely new, and uncharacteristically lavish. He frowned, just as Bram returned to him. “Rich boy left it for you.”

The words shook him. Phantom pain gnawed at his neck. He pressed his fingers absently to old wounds and swallowed hard. “I don’t want it.”

But a glimmer of red caught his eye. He hesitated.  _ Blood. It looks the same as the blood he took from you.  _ He leaned closer, even as he took a step back. The candles around him seemed to dim as the stone on the counter stole their light. Like a crystal heart, it pulsed, casting a cherry glow over stained oak. An intricate golden band cradled the gem, and it was so much more magnificent than the ring he’d been forced to wear before.

“Don’t want it, eh? Your eyes spin a different tale.”

“Shut up.” Gan averted his gaze. “It’s big. Would buy me a few weeks’ worth of food at least.” He glanced up. “You say he left it for me?”

“Well, I didn’t go out and buy it for ya.” Bram stepped back from the counter. Gan understood; the closer he stood, the greater the ring’s temptation. It was a difficult treasure to part with. “But yeah. Said you earned yourself—What was it he said? I want the precise phrasing—Oh yeah. ‘Very. Loyal. Customer.’ He said it just like that. ‘Very. Loyal.’”

Gan lifted the ring between two fingers. The golden man had worn it himself. For this, it felt imbued with sinister energy. But perhaps Gan was playing into simple paranoia, after discovering what he had about the man. It could be just a ring. Just a meal.

He slid it onto his middle finger and modeled it very deliberately for Bram.

“Oh, a funny man now. I see. I’d tell you not to throw away a stable job to pursue comedy, but…” Bram rubbed at a smudged glass with his apron. Then his voice turned serious. “But I’d be careful if I was you, hey? Richie seemed right pissed when he said it. Made me think he has it out for ya, maybe.”

Gan curled his fingers over the side of his neck. Gold rested warm against his skin. “Maybe.”

He paused.

“Careful on the streets these nights, Bram.”

“Aye, you’re always killing my buzz. Get on with becoming a brewer at our rival bar already. You got a nose for it, ‘pparently.”

Gan nodded. He stepped away from the counter without further word. He didn’t look around before passing through the doors of Isaiah’s Tavern; he had the place memorized, and he would spend the rest of his life trying to forget it.

A midnight breeze bit his skin. Thick, grey clouds obscured a crescent moon, and the air hung damp around him. He tucked his hands into his pockets, letting the weight of ruby and gold keep him grounded. He hoped his customer would maintain his promise of loyalty. They still had an unfinished transaction to complete, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter...
> 
> "Warren, if you've something to say, please, use your words. I've never been good at charades." He sat before his vanity mirror, crossing one leg over the other. Crimson eyes reflected at him and he blew them a kiss. It was received with indifference.
> 
> "He's woken up."


	5. Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifth Chapter is up! Thanks a million to everyone who motivated me during my period of writer's block. Comments and feedback are always treasured so, so much, and I respond to every one. Please, enjoy more rich vampire shenanigans.

Red was one of his favorite colors. It had not always been; there used to be others he loved with far greater passion. Violet, for instance, was a royal hue, a symbol of luxury and wealth. He recalled fighting with young girls, people he once called _family_ , over who cherished the color most. They would make a game of it.

“Violet is the color of the sky, when the first stars emerge like glittering white diamonds,” one might say, and he would trump her with a comparison of his own.

“Violet is the color of amethysts, granted to us by the wine Dionysus wept over pure crystal quartz when his love was lost to him.”

Another girl would chime in, “Violet is the color of wisdom, Marion, which you sorely lack.” And so, the sensible young women determined he could not possibly like the color more than they, and he was disqualified.

As he aged, Marion discovered a new appreciation for the color gold. Violet was the color he’d wear when he became rich, but gold was the way to _get_ there. He realized his love of music around the same time; there was no sweeter song than the jingling of a full purse, after all.

“Your eyes are gold, so when you look on people’s faces, they’ll feel compelled to shower you with coins of the same color,” his father had told him once. He’d felt pride in hearing that. And give him gold, people did. He just had to work for it, harder than he would have liked. It was always gone before he remembered spending it, though. A fleeting, capricious color.

Now, there was something about the brilliance of gore, the way it glistened on his fingers like liquid ruby, that fascinated him. He watched the stuff trickle past his knuckles, streaking the tanned flesh of his forearm. The red of the blood sang to the red of his heart, and the latter chimed in time to that music. His smile parted on a wet gasp, and he knew that was red as well.

“Please…”

Saliva flooded his tongue and he lapped at his wrist without shame. Fluid warmth dripped past the corner of his mouth. A scarlet bead clung to his chin before splattering at his collar. Another shirt ruined, but that was the price of a luxury meal.

“Please, sir… I’ve a family…”

Marion paused in his stupor. The rasping plea annoyed him. “Your family is fine.” He spat the words, and flecks of crimson dotted his victim’s cheek. The sight brought a smile to Marion’s lips. “It’s not really them you’re worried about at all, is it? You can tell me honestly, dear. You only care to save your own ass.”

Blue eyes widened with repulsion, denial, _fear_. The man didn’t argue, though. His breaths shuddered out in ragged gasps, and Marion knew he was exaggerating. Breathing couldn’t be that difficult if he was still talking.

“What’s your favorite color, _mon chér?_ ”

“Wh—My what?”

Marion clicked his tongue before running it over flushed lips. In one hand, he held a violet purse. From it spilled golden coins. Still, he sat mesmerized by the _red_.

“It’s a simple enough question, isn’t it? What color enthralls you? Quickens your pulse? What color do you look upon and, no matter your mood, you… Hello?” He nudged the man with the toe of his boot. Those pale eyes weren’t so wide now. They fluttered out of focus, layered with a lethal glaze. The man’s chest hitched into a spasm. Perhaps he hadn’t been exaggerating after all. Marion frowned. “Turtledove? _Mon biquet?_ Pah.”

Marion snatched the man’s purse. Here he was, still working for the gold he should have been _showered with_. “My father was embarrassingly naïve.”

The man’s lips parted on one last, soundless plea. Then he gurgled through a mouthful of that red, and he was done. Marion sighed.

“I’d been hoping for better conversation from you. Oh, but I do always choose the worst partners for discussion, don’t I?” He laughed, standing too quickly. A dizzying rush blurred his vision and a hand went out to steady him against the nightstand. When he pulled back, a bloody print remained. “Ah, hell. I’ll chat with myself. I’m the only one offering any intelligent replies these days. Although, it would be nice to hear a simple ‘how do you do’ from someone other than—”

Something moved beside him. Marion startled, whirling on booted heels. Adrenaline seized him. His head snapped around. What he saw made him laugh harder, a bitter sound barbed by scorn. His reflection copied the gesture. _Frightened by your own image. What an intimidating creature you are._

Marion scoffed. He touched his fingers to the mirror, and the contact carried him down from his high. All at once, the flavor in his mouth turned stale. He felt the blood drying on his skin, forming an uncomfortable crust. The silence in the room assumed a presence all its own, and Marion shuddered to feel it. He told himself it was more tolerable than Warren’s scolding. He’d rather hear nothing at all than the words _sloppy, incompetent, crude._ Still, at least the insults meant he wasn’t alone.

His hand fisted over the fabric of his new purse. “It’s about time I return home, no? I’ve a debt that needs paying. Thank you for your contribution, by the by.”

He stepped around an upturned table. Hand-crafted curtains crumpled underfoot. His prey had been a fighter, in the beginning. At the first sight of Marion’s fangs, he’d wrecked his surroundings with a fit of wild thrashing. In the end, realization crippled the man, made him weep. Marion had pierced his throat as soon as the tears began. They discomforted him, aggravated him, and he much preferred the quiet daze that gripped the fellow once he’d lost enough blood. _The quiet, yes, but not the silence._

Marion frowned at the peeling floral paper lining the walls of the corridor. He expected better upkeep in this part of town. He was playing a risky game, hunting so close to home, but he’d already taken a bite from the slums that night. He needed a change of scenery.

Of course, no scene compared to that of a sunlit horizon. Marion reached beneath his shirt, scratching at the marred flesh there. It served as a reminder. _You will never see the sun again; that’s one gold coin you do not want to rain upon you._ He paused on the dead man’s front porch, scanning vacant streets. A grey-blue haze accented the sky. People were closer to waking now than they were to retiring for sleep. While they had the pleasure of seeing the sun rise, Marion thought he’d head home to watch it set…within a wooden frame.

*

Three days the portrait hung in his room. Its colors were resplendent, the image of a god whose face he could no longer touch. His eyes narrowed on the replica. It stole his breath, made him flush with adoration, and he didn’t want it to. He searched for a blemish, something to warrant contempt. Alas, the sunset blazed with a perfection that inspired nostalgia, and he felt sick with it. The only stain the painting bore was the curled _G. R._ mocking him from the corner. He had to tilt his head to see it properly. Three days the portrait hung in his room, and three nights he’d woken to find it crooked.

“Gods damn it all.” Marion dismounted the portrait and whirled with it in hand. Somehow, he knew this to be the tavern boy’s doing; the boy left one final annoyance to follow him, even after their war had been won. Marion sniffed. He relocated the painting to the other side of his bed, evaluating it with careful consideration. “Perhaps a new hook will help you behave, hm?”

A flicker of white appeared in his doorway. Marion paused, then continued his work. He shifted the grand, golden frame with both hands, took a step back, and came forward to tilt it again. At last, he stood back with a finger on his chin. Behind him, the presence remained. He sighed.

“Does this look straight to you?” Marion frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. He waited for an answer and, when none came, agitation stiffened his shoulders. He dispelled it with a scoff, crossed to his armoire, and distracted himself by running long fingers over intricate carvings. He hummed while he did, letting his gaze wander over the walls. They really could use a few more pieces of art. The old ones bored him.

“Hm.”

Marion rolled his eyes at the voice. “Warren, if you’ve something to say, please, use your words. I’ve never been good at charades.” He sat before his vanity mirror, crossing one leg over the other. Crimson eyes reflected at him and he blew them a kiss. It was received with indifference.

“He’s woken up.”

The declaration did not startle him. He wished it did. Maybe, if he looked absolutely appalled, Warren would stop glaring at him. _Foolish,_ those ruby eyes said. _Foolish Marion, you’ve always been so foolish._

Was he a fool, though, if he _expected_ the words to come? He remembered how much strength it had taken to tear away from that pale neck. Even now, he could taste the sweet, crimson nectar on his tongue, hear the frantic flutter of his victim’s heart. There had still been a chance he’d die; the boy called Ganymede was stubborn, but quick to succumb to his fate once all hope had fled. He did not beg for his life in those final moments. He did not offer desperate promises or lose himself in despair. He’d simply fought, until he hadn’t. Marion predicted he would do the same against Death, when she came for him. He even predicted he’d win. _Perhaps that makes me all the_ more _foolish_.

“Pah, no one will believe him anyway.” Marion waved the thoughts away and turned his attention to an array of face paints and powders instead. He chose a brilliant cerulean shade for his eyes, something to make the gold shine like the sun against the sea. “He’s just another peasant boy who passed out drunk in some alley and decided to cry devil.”

Warren didn’t look convinced. He arched a fair brow, and Marion knew that was all the reply he’d receive. The silence grated at his nerves, as it did so often. _Fine_ , he thought, _I’ll fill the space entirely myself_. He spoke again.

“If you’re so concerned, you’re free to finish him off. Really, it wouldn’t take much for you to track him back to his pitiful hovel and smother the poor sod.”

“He’s not my problem.”

“Oh! Look at you, responding with—” Marion turned in his seat, only to meet an empty doorway. His fist clenched, and he cursed beneath his breath. “Fine… Fine! That’s very well! I’ll handle the whole affair myself, since such a project daunts you so. Perhaps I’ll bring the boy home to keep me company. It’s such a _chore_ for you, after all. He’s a much better conversationalist, you know! He—”

Marion paused. His brow furrowed as he settled back to face the mirror. _A much better conversationalist._ He scoffed. Ganymede Reid was fortunate to paint more gracefully than he spoke. Still, at least he spoke at all.

Marion fingered the coin purse to his right. It was a pitiful thing stitched together from scraps of old fabric. Even so, he figured his little tavern boy might like to see it again. A slow smile curled over his lips. He dabbed some powder onto his nose, his cheeks. Then, with a final spin before the mirror, he turned, stopping to fix that _damn crooked painting_ as he went.

*

The night was inviting. Marion was a part of it, after all, and some twilit essence burned at the center of him. Alongside that, mischief sparked. What could he do, he wondered, to make his return to Ganymede Reid even more _meaningful?_ He was a man of sentiment, and a get-well gift would only be courteous. _He can consider this our first lesson on etiquette_. He hid a smirk behind his fingers and strode on.

The merchants’ square was busier now than on previous nights. Marion suspected the lack of rain played a part. Or, with winter swiftly approaching, people were frantically stocking up on necessities. No one appreciated the long, bitter nights heralded by autumn’s passing; no one but the wicked, who thrived in such icy darkness.

Whatever the reason, the crowds swarmed thick around him; and yet, Marion passed through the bodies like blood through a vein. They all, every one of them, parted to allow his passage. It seemed an unconscious movement—A casual shrug or a step to the left—but Marion knew a greater influence to be at work. Charm rolled off of him in thick, golden waves, and the mortals around him drowned in it.

“I beg your pardon.” Marion stepped close to a jeweler’s stand, and the couple before him split away from one another to grant him better access. “A riveting selection you have.”

“Why, thank you.” The boy behind the counter stood stiff. His eyes were violet, _the color of amethysts_ , and his pressed white shirt was coated with a layer of starch. Below, he polished a brooch with near-compulsive care. “Please, feel free to browse.”

Marion’s eyes trailed over sapphires, emeralds, and pearls. Diamonds sparkled in silver nests, and the gold shined even by dusk. A ruby stole his attention, and he hummed. He could offer that to his favorite little serving boy; a sister to his first gift. His hand went out to touch it.

“Ah.” Gloved hands snatched the ring away. Marion raised his brows, staring at the empty space where it had been. Then, he settled back and watched the boy’s face. “My apologies. We do not _touch_ the merchandise, unless we intend to make a purchase.”

Marion arched a brow. A smirk settled over his lips, and he could tell it made the boy nervous. He gave a languid shrug. “ _We_ missed a button on our shirt this morning.”

The boy’s eyes grew before darting frantically over his clothing. He tugged at his shirt, dislodging it from his pants, and fair fingers ran over the row of fastenings. “This, well, I… I fail to see—”

Marion drew a sharp breath suddenly, preparing to sneeze. The boy yelped. His every muscle tensed, and he flinched away from the counter, knocking his head on a shelf as he went. Marion expelled the breath with a burst of laughter instead. He doubled over with his mirth, not noticing the boy’s indignant attempts to quiet him. At last, the ringing of a bell brought Marion upright.

“I believe we’ve finished our business together.” The boy huffed, his knuckles white where he gripped the bell’s handle. “You may leave.”

“Ah, yes, very well.” Marion leaned over the counter then. The boy gasped despite himself, and Marion smiled, flashing fangs. “But _we_ will be seeing you again. Your wares are too fine to pass up, my friend.”

The boy looked confused a moment, then he blanched, standing paralyzed. His only movements came from the trembling of his jaw. At last, he raised one quivering hand to adjust thin, wire-rimmed glasses, and he nodded. “Have a…a blessed day, good sir.”

Marion’s laughter kept him as warm as his cloak. That heat followed him to the outskirts of the square, where another merchant’s table captured his sights. It was a modest thing compared to the last, and run by a woman far less kempt. Long grey hair matted at her knees, which were twisted and knobbed by arthritis. Her knuckles looked the same, and Marion wondered how she managed to weave the basket on her lap so delicately. She smiled a crooked smile when he drew near.

“Got a taste for fruit, dearie?”

Marion smirked at the arrangements. Peaches poured over plums and pears. Here and there, an apple, or orange, or vine of grapes was thrown into the mix. None of those treats proved as sweet as the image that crossed Marion’s memory, though: It was Ganymede Reid, crinkling his nose at the painted fruit basket on stage. Oh, he would _adore_ the real thing then, wouldn’t he? Marion offered a smile of his own.

“What a lovely assortment of fruits. And you make all the baskets by hand?”

“I do indeed, dearie, and have since I was your age.”

Marion swallowed a laugh at that. _My age._ “I’m going to visit an old friend, _chérie_. We left on poor terms, so I’m looking for your most magnificent fruit basket to make amends. Would you assist me?”

The woman hummed. She rose slowly, her back bent and bowed. The creaking of old joints seemed almost audible, and she sighed when she reached her full height, which was not very high at all. “I’ll tell you these fruits were picked early in the morning, so they aren’t the freshest now.”

“Ah, that’s more than fine, my dear. This friend is a rotten sort himself, so it would only be fitting.” Marion’s high, musical laughter mingled with the woman’s dry cackle. She smiled again, and it met her eyes with a twinkle.

“Well, here. I think this one should do the job.” She shuffled over and lifted a basket with all the tenderness a scientist might grant a beloved creation. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You know what this has in there? Take a look.”

Marion’s smirk returned. He thought he could guess what was inside the fruit basket. Fruit. Even so, he craned his neck to peer inside.

“ _Cherries_ ,” the woman crooned, before he’d even spotted the little red bulbs. “Last of the season. I grow them meself. Well, with the children’s help, these days.” She gave a chortle, bittersweet, and nudged the basket into his arms. “Here, here, the food’ll only go to waste if you and your friend don’t eat it. Only thing I ask is that you plant the seeds when you’re done.”

“You’re saying you don’t want payment?”

The woman smiled again, and Marion decided she might have been a mischievous youth once. “You’re repaying us all by being good to the earth. Plant the seeds.”

Marion nodded, and almost headed off with a song on his lips before he remembered the tattered coin purse on his hip. Another smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Ah, but I insist, _chérie!_ You deserve compensation for the miracles you perform.”

“Miracles?” That dry laugh sounded once more. “I pick apples when they’re ripe, and I wait for the tallest ones to fall so I can gather them off the ground. No miracles there, child.”

“But you breathe life into the very plants that sustain us.” Marion’s hands cradled one of the woman’s own. He felt veins like raised welts beneath her skin, and a dull pulse laced through them. He swallowed once. “Your children would appreciate the coin, at least. And their children. With stands like yours popping up so often, there is always some new treat to buy. I’d feel wrong, depriving them of an opportunity that I can’t imagine living without myself. Please, accept just a little.”

Marion unfastened the purse from his belt. A wicked giddiness rose in him. Using the tavern boy’s coin to buy the tavern boy’s dreaded fruit basket. Why, it felt poetic. He turned the woman’s palm toward him and pressed what little currency the boy had into wrinkled skin. He left one lone penny inside, and fastened the pouch back at his hip.

“Cherries…” Marion hoisted the basket up with both hands. It was finely crafted, wrought with pretty woods he couldn’t identify. Inside, a surfeit of colors and scents tickled his senses. The fruit may not be fresh, but Marion envied the boy who got to taste it all the same. “I’ll be off then. Thank you again, _madame_ , and thanks from my friend as well!”

The woman breathed one last laugh that followed Marion as he spun away. “You are a very strange boy.”

Marion smiled at that, for once feeling coy. He looked over his shoulder but, by then, the woman had returned to her baskets. He liked her, he decided, and hoped she stayed safe whenever the nights grew cruel. He held the basket tight.

Music touched Marion’s tongue while he walked. He sang of rich men and poor men, monsters and saints, the blurred lines connecting them all. It passed the time as he delved deeper into the blighted town Ganymede Reid called home. He ignored the rubbish that crushed and squelched beneath his heels. He paid no attention to those sick and dying who occasionally croaked at him from the shadows. He closed his mind against the sights, sounds, stenches, and sorrows—Because he knew them all already. This was a tired tale, one he’d lived and had no interest in retelling. He scratched beneath his shirt again and pressed onward.

It had been Warren who pointed out the boy’s house the first time. When Marion returned home three nights past, Warren had seen the blood on his shirt, and something shifted behind his eyes. Marion still couldn’t explain it, the way Warren seemed to know, without being told, what he’d done with Ganymede Reid. He only knew that Warren waited for him to clean up. Then, he tracked the boy’s scent back to some pathetic little shack, stood beside Marion while the crickets filled the silence, and turned around again. He didn’t issue any commands, but the implication was clear: _Finish what you started_. Instead, Marion peeked through the window, found Ganymede asleep, and went to kill another man entirely. He hated being told what to do, even if it was a wordless suggestion.

Now, when Marion stood outside the crumbling hovel, he stood alone. Not that it made much of a difference, he thought. The quiet felt the same. Leaves crunched underfoot as he stepped to one of the busted windows. He entertained the idea of peering inside and catching the boy in slumber once more. Brunette lashes had fluttered so gently against freckled cheeks, and his expression had softened from its usual grimace. It was a sweet, mortifying little scene. One Marion wouldn’t mind capturing again.

Instead, when he pried back the thin boards covering the window, he was greeted by a low, menacing growl. Reflective yellow eyes glared at him from the darkness. Marion clicked his tongue and hoisted the fruit basket into the house before him.

“Run along, kitty. Daddy is having a friend over.”

The cat hissed in reply. Marion hissed back.

“Yes, I know. I hate you too. Mangy monster.” Marion spat the words and lifted one leg over the windowsill. The cat’s snarl built to a Banshee’s screech. “Damn you! Keep hissing, then. At least dogs show some sort of _gratitude_ when people feed and shelter them. Oh, but you’re entitled to all that, aren’t you? Furred devil. Move now.”

He moved to duck past the windowpane and his cloak snagged on a stray nail. He spat a curse, snatching it away. Fabric ripped, a sound even more devastating than his untuned piano key. He stumbled into the room, teeth bared on a scowl, and his eyes went to the cat stalking ever closer. Ah, but he was _inside_. His expression melted into a smile.

“You can’t spoil my victory now,” he informed the creature. He moved to grab the scruff of its neck. “Up you go.”

The cat howled, unsheathing its claws to swat at Marion’s hand. Then, kitten instinct took over, and it ragdolled in his grip. He lifted the animal in front of his face, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Feisty, just like your master. You can ask where that got him, hm?” Marion plucked up his basket with a free hand, perching it carefully atop a desk. It was one of the few furnishings in the cramped space. _Sad._ Marion sighed.

A worn mattress sat shoved against the wall, covered by a moth-eaten quilt. Clothes were folded on the corner of that bed, and a small pile lay strewn across the floor. The only items of interest appeared to be some canvases stacked against the walls, and an easel blanketed by a faded grey tarp. Marion nearly peaked beneath it, but the sound of approaching footsteps stopped him. His attention snapped to the door, and the cat began to squirm in his hand.

“Hush now. Master’s almost here. Do you smell him?” Marion settled into the only chair available, cringing when nails dug into his thigh. He stroked the creature with force, holding it still. Moonlight flooded the room as the door creaked open. Marion’s smile returned, glinting under that pale glow.

Ganymede Reid stood with hunched shoulders, tugging at messy curls. His stance was heavy with fatigue and it took him a moment to raise his head, as though that gesture alone were too much. When he did, he paused, staring at Marion in the dark. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the blackness. When they did, they turned hard.

“What are you doing here?” The boy’s voice matched his tough expression. “Get out. Now.” He hesitated in the doorway. One hand planted on his hip. The other stiffened on the doorframe, and that tension gripped the rest of his body. Then, his boldness melted into something unreadable. His voice dropped. “Or are you here to finish me off?”

“Now Ganymede, is that any way to greet a guest?” Marion feigned a gasp, though a smirk still ghosted the corners of his mouth. “Particularly one who went out of his way to bring you such a magnificent gift?”

Ganymede’s lip curled when he noticed the basket. Marion couldn’t hear his heart from this distance, but he knew it was kicking into a frenzy. Repulsion soured his words. “I didn’t ask for your fruit. And I didn’t invite you here. Aren’t you supposed to, like, burn or something, if you walk into a place uninvited?” He frowned and took a step into the house. Uncertainty made a rigid line of his shoulders. “Isn’t that how the stories go?”

“Is it not fresh enough for your tastes?” Marion pouted. He reached for a peach and, in doing so, allowed too much slack for the cat on his lap. The creature wormed from his grasp, scrambling to the heels of its owner. Ganymede pursed his lips, then knelt to reassure the animal. It was a touching sight, and irritating for all the same reasons.

Marion sighed and dropped his fruit. It bounced once before rolling under an end table. The sound drew Ganymede’s attention back to him, and the boy scowled as Marion went on. “Did your boss relay my message to you, Ganymede? I was not lying when I said you earned yourself a loyal customer.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t seem to work there anymore. I appreciate the last tip, though.” Ganymede straightened, leaning against the wall to study his ring. Even from where he sat, Marion saw the glitter of that gem, the radiance of the gold that encased it. Then, as though to offer a better view, the boy flashed his middle finger where the jewel rested. “It’ll sell for a pretty penny, won’t it?”

Marion’s brows arched in a mask of annoyance. “That will sell for more than all the petty tips you’ve made in your life, combined.” He paused, and his voice softened. “But, as tempting as that sounds, I’d be wounded if you gave away such a thoughtful offering. I want you to think of me.” He kissed his own middle finger and turned it up as Ganymede had done. “Every time you see it there on your finger.”

“You don’t want me to think of you. You didn’t want me to think at all. Or did you forget how you left me to die three nights ago?”

“Oh, Ganymede, of _course_ I want you to remember me. After all, now I’ve left you two souvenirs.” He tapped two fingers against the side of his own neck. “See, like you, I’m not so skilled at expressing my affections. So, already, I’ve given you a ring and— _Gasp_ —a kiss. All before the first date! Forgive me.”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your ring.” The boy fisted his hands in his pockets. A breeze appeared to chill him, and he stepped away from the door without shutting it. “And if that’s what you call a kiss, I can’t imagine how unpopular you are with the ladies.”

“Oh, I’ve never been too popular with the ladies…” He chuckled, eyes dancing with gilded mischief. “I just want us to be _even_. After all, I think of you every time I see your pretty portrait. I even glimpsed some of your others on the way in.” He stood to gesture around the room with a grand, sweeping motion. “Would you care for show and tell, or am I welcome to show myself around?”

“You won’t touch any of my work. Well. Any more of it.” Brown eyes darted away and the boy paused in thought. Finally, he glanced at the fruit basket, snorted, and moved to the covered easel. He removed the sheet with a series of tugs and jerks. The canvas he revealed made Marion laugh.

“Finally desperate enough to start painting those fruit bowls, hm?” Marion drifted closer, eyes moving over the still-life portrait. He rubbed at his chin with a hum. “Well, they _do_ sell. Perhaps you could add some cherries. I have some here for you to reference.” He gestured to the basket. Ganymede busied himself by covering the painting again, and didn’t look.

“You’ve seen it,” he grumbled, once his work was safely stowed. “Now leave.”

“So curt… So _rude_. I thought you said it was more interesting having me around? I believe, in fact, that you confessed that with your hands in my hair.” In a few swift steps, Marion stood before the boy, fingers threaded through his curls. His eyes flashed bright. “Like this. Of course, I suppose you would have said anything in your situation. At the same time, though… I heard there’s always a little truth behind every lie.”

“That’s stupid.” Ganymede grew still. Otherwise, he met Marion’s gaze with an intensity all his own. “I could tell you I hate the color green when, actually, I love it. That’s lying. There’s no truth to it at all.”

Marion shrugged. “Hate and love are closer to each other than they are to neutrality.”

“I’m not interested in sitting here spewing… Fuckin’…philosophy with you.” Ganymede tried to jerk away, but Marion tightened his grip, holding him in place. The boy snarled. Marion grinned. “Are you here to kill me?”

Marion raised his brows in consideration. He turned his hand, stroking it tenderly through earthy brown locks. “Do you want me to kill you?”

“Of course I don’t want you to.” It was the expected answer, but the boy didn’t meet his eyes when he said it. They trailed off to something in the distance, growing somber. Then he blinked, and it was gone. “But…I think you’ve proven that you can. Not much I can do about it. I’d just rather you get it over with, if that’s what you’re here for.”

Marion hummed a fanciful little tune. His hand traveled to the boy’s neck, to the tiny scabs nestled there. He pressed down. “I don’t want to kill you, Ganymede. I want to see your paintings.”

Ganymede Reid watched him, eyes growing heavy with resignation. His shoulders hunched again, his expression turned petulant, and then he shrugged out of Marion’s grasp. This time, Marion let him go. He observed while the boy paced the room’s perimeter. Ganymede had a way of moving that was guarded, defensive, and Marion wondered if he walked like that even when he was alone, if it was one of those learned habits that proved impossible to shake. Marion tilted his head, and his attention snagged on another exciting trinket.

“Ooh.” Marion returned to the desk, to the array of envelopes scattered there. He’d missed them before. Each one was signed with a different name in the same meticulous hand. “Are you perhaps more eloquent with a quill?”

In the corner of his eye, Ganymede stiffened. He said nothing when Marion touched the parchment, but he sucked in a breath, and Marion noticed he did not release it. Some thick tension clung to the air. Marion’s mouth opened on a grin, but the atmosphere weighed on him, and he decided the letters weren’t so fascinating after all. He turned away, and Ganymede exhaled. He spoke before Marion could ask questions.

“Is this what you want?”

Ganymede walked along the room’s edge, turning over canvas after canvas as he went. Marion’s own breath caught in his throat. The paintings, once revealed, expressed sorrow, love, loss, beauty, tragedy, and nature’s divine essence. Marion moved without thought, his footfalls automatic as he followed the circle of portraits. These were scenes he could vanish within, if given the chance.

One transported him to an enchanted forest, inhabited by wild, fae-like creatures. They were not malicious, but instead invited onlookers to share their sanctuary. Another coaxed him to the edge of a waterfall, and he could feel the spray on his skin, the kiss of a cool breeze in his hair. Others still dragged him into castles cloaked in cloud, snowy hills glittering beneath a winter sun, ponds clear as crystal and brimming with life. Marion emerged from those wonders breathless.

“You really are selling yourself short with these, you realize.” He caressed a wooden frame, not caring that splinters responded to his touch. “You’re too complacent. People cheat you out of well-earned coin only because you let them.” He paused then, lips poking into a troubled frown. “You’d think the work of a Reid boy would sell for more to begin with. Ah…”

Ganymede peeled away from the wall, his arms crossed over a wrinkled green shirt. “I’m not in any position to sell my work on the streets. First, I’d need a permit. Second, nobody looks twice at work done by commoners, and that’s exactly what I am now. My name holds less water than a pound of shit. Third…I’m not great with people. Surprise.”

Silence settled over the room. Each moment that slipped past, Marion found another striking detail in the portrait before him. He traced each one with a finger, his breaths coming soft and slow. The tavern boy did not paint earthly scenes, Marion decided; he must have caught a glimpse into heaven.

“Do you have more sunsets? Sunrises?”

“What?” Ganymede’s head snapped up, as though he were tugged from some deep, mesmerizing thought. He blinked once, and regained clarity. “Oh. Right. Well. Not in a while. I’m usually working at sunset. Asleep for sunrise. I’ve done some in the past. _Obviously_.” Annoyance sharpened that last word. Then, “Why?”

_Why._

A smile settled over Marion’s lips. A knowing light flooded his eyes, and he tapped his temple. “You know what I am. Think deeply. But do try not to hurt yourself.”

Marion turned his back to the portraits. Their hold on him was strong and, as much as he enjoyed the warmth of their embrace, he could not lose himself in it.

“You wondered why I didn’t kill you. I say it’s because it would be unforgivable, letting such delicious blood go to waste.” Marion covered his smirk with a delicate hand. “Your words are bitter, Ganymede, but what’s inside you is irresistibly sweet.” _And the art you create, even sweeter._ “You see, I’m an optimist. You’re standing where you are now because I like to think we can strike ourselves a little deal. Let everyone walk away happy. Will you hear me?”

The boy looked him over with critical brown eyes. He scoffed and glanced at the fruit basket, not for the first time. A hand hovered over his stomach. Then, as though moving quickly would render his movements invisible, he snatched an apple into his palm. “What is it? I’m sure you want me to keep my mouth shut about what you are?”

“Oh. Oh, you _are_ a comedian. Well, sit and enjoy that fruit I so graciously bought for you while I explain.”

Ganymede looked away, a scowl crossing his features. His grip tightened on the apple, but he took a bite anyway. Poor thing was starving. Marion bit back a chuckle and shrugged.

“If I wanted so badly to keep you quiet, you wouldn’t be drawing breath right now. Besides, spitfire, who would believe you? The drunken fools at the tavern?” Another laugh burst forth. He didn’t try to cover this one. “Oh, how bloody convincing _that_ lot is. I’ll tell you this: If you ever spouted such horrific tales in my part of the city, you’d be thrown into a little locked room with nice, padded walls. And wouldn’t that be a stain on the Reid family name?”

He paused. The crunching of an apple filled the space. When Ganymede noticed, his jaw stilled. He watched Marion with a brooding disinterest. Nonetheless, Marion cleared his throat, and went on.

“No. I want a…companion, if you will.” He sneered to obscure the truth of those words. “Warren’s been so aloof lately. I’ve also been entertaining the idea of having a housekeeper around. I’m charitable, what can I say! Giving a poor, shunned, starving artist shelter sets my heart aflutter. You would never lack coin, always feel full, and your paintings would sell for hundreds. All I’d ask in return is…a meal, now and then. A painting perhaps. Simple, no?”

Thoughts churned behind the boy’s eyes. They were dark, indecipherable, and he chewed his apple all the while. Finally, he took a step forward. Marion perked, striding forth to meet him. When he drew close, Ganymede opened his mouth. And, instead of speaking, he spit the mush of his apple onto Marion’s boots.

“Fuck you. You’re a monster. I’m not going anywhere with you. Except hell, maybe, when I die.”

Marion stared at the slop on his shoes. He turned one foot, watching the slush trickle to the floor. He breathed one short, quiet laugh. His eyes blazed.

“Now, are you being reasonable, Ganymede?” His voice lilted with merriment and he took another step forward. He was dissatisfied when the boy didn’t shy away. “Reason. That’s what makes your father such a good businessman, you know. You could be just as great, if you could only avoid stupid little mistakes like _that_.”

Marion drew up straight. In his heels, he stood well over six feet. Ganymede tilted his head back to study him. The boy talked big, Marion noticed, but it was overcompensation. Marion grinned and placed a hand atop brown curls.

“Are you done growing?”

Ganymede’s expression withered. He shoved Marion’s hand away and advanced. Marion stumbled, caught off guard as the breadth of the boy’s body forced him backwards. He recomposed himself quickly, held his ground, and his face hardened just the same.

“I’ve been taking care of _myself_ for over a year now. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your help. If you wanted to make my life so much easier, you wouldn’t have gotten me fired. You wouldn’t have stolen my shit. And you know what?” The boy’s voice dropped, but the smolder in his eyes remained. “If you _really_ wanted to do something for me, you would have just fucking drained my blood that night, like you wanted to.”

“I already told you…” Marion purred. Then he stepped forward, straight into Ganymede’s chest. The boy had not been expecting that, because he staggered back until Marion had him caged against the wall. His hand curled lightly around a freckled throat and his words sharpened, coming down with more lethal precision. “If I had _wanted_ to kill you, _you would be dead._ And honestly, if you’re not willing to make a deal with me, there’s no more reason for me to keep you around. You’re here because of _my_ mercy, Ganymede. Do you understand that? You have _me_ to thank, for standing where you do now.”

“I’d rather be standing in a pit of fire.” The words pushed past clenched teeth. Marion tightened his grip on the boy. That off-key sounded again. _Ding_. It was a dangerous note.

“You will be.” Marion flashed a predatory grin, and his heart leapt when Ganymede’s throat spasmed beneath his palm. “If you keep disrespecting me. And I tell you this from experience, Ganymede Reid: Burning is the worst torture imaginable.”

The boy drew a reedy breath. A weak smile wavered at the corners of his lips. Something like laughter rumbled in his throat, even as he fought to inhale. “Really? I thought it was listening to you run your fucking mouth.”

Blood flavored the air. Marion’s breath hitched. His nails had broken skin, and some voracious instinct urged him to taste the wounds. He jerked back, and Ganymede doubled over, sucking down large gulps of air. He looked startled but, more than that, he looked disappointed when Marion withdrew, even as he tried to master his expression. Marion spat a laugh.

“I won’t kill you. That would be just what you want, wouldn’t it? And you haven’t given me a single thing _I_ want.” He looked the boy over. _Pitiful_. He snorted. _And Warren calls_ me _pathetic._ “You can keep wishing you were dead, though. Things will only get worse for you from here. And when they do, you can get a little braver and give up yourself. Or…” He opened his arms with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “You can remember my proposal and find me again. In a better mood, next time.”

Ganymede’s hand went to his neck. His eyes were wide and dark beneath a furrowed brow, his teeth bared on a wordless threat. But he straightened up without a word. It was perhaps the first time Marion did not want a reply. He unhooked the purse at his hip and tossed it to the freckled boy.

“It’s not much, but something tells me you’ll want every last farthing you can find. At least until we meet again, Ganymede.”

Marion headed for the door then. He said his piece. It wasn’t received as openly as he’d prefer, but he supposed humans were like that: Their lives were short and trivial, so they clung to every small display of power that they could. Still, even mortals as ridiculous as Ganymede Reid had some self-preservation. He’d be back.

The cat hissed with a venom its master dared not speak. Marion stomped to startle it away. He laughed, snatched up an apple as he passed that wooden basket, and returned to the night that owned him. He could only imagine that Ganymede Reid watched him depart, and wondered if he was already reconsidering. If not, he would.

*

_Lock eyes._

_Speak smoothly, but firmly. Be persuasive._

_Command the space with the language of your body._

_And remember that you are superior. Your aura is programmed to overwhelm theirs._

Marion approached the landowner’s front door with Warren’s instructions in mind. He straightened his cravat before he knocked. The amber at his neck pulsed in time with the owls’ sweet refrain. He allowed himself to sing along, giving lyrics to the music. His apple tossed from hand to hand, back and forth like a metronome. After his second verse, the door opened, and a tall man in satin pajamas stood before him. The song died, giving life, instead, to a smile.

“Hello, _monsieur._ I know it’s late. Forgive my timing.” _Lock eyes. Speak smoothly. Command the space._ A golden aura reached out to its opponent, thirsty. Marion’s smile grew. “I’m here because I’d like to discuss the value of one of your properties”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, Evicted...  
> You can probably guess what happens. Also, Gan spends some time figuring out who his true friends are.  
> Stay tuned.


	6. Evicted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter's finally up, just a week late! With all my exams and essays lately, updates are coming a little slower. That said, I love writing them and I'm still working hard to post regularly! Next one will likely also be late (should be out by November 18th). After that, I'll be nearing my semester break, so I'll have a lot more writing time. So, for now, enjoy and remember that feedback is always loved and appreciated!

A single penny, a rotted fruit basket, and a literal pain in the neck—That was what the golden bastard had given him. Of course, those paltry offerings didn’t compare to all that the man had _taken_. Gan’s job was number two on the list, right below his wits. He’d lost his money. His appetite. His very sense of what was _real_. He supposed he should have known, then, that the sudden pounding at his door heralded another loss.

Gan almost didn’t answer. Dawn found him sprawled across his bed, his head beneath a pillow and a quilt ensnaring his feet. The rest of his body shivered violently, but Gan read that it was most important to keep one’s extremities warm. Of course, he’d also read that vampires and devils were creatures of fiction. He used to take that for granted once, too.

Amidst false realities and true fairytales, Gan knew only two things for certain: First, if he rose to tell whoever occupied his front porch to piss off, something very close to hypothermia would be waiting for him. Second, the beating on his door would only grow louder until he took that risk. He clutched his pillow down over his ears and grit his teeth against the noise until it rattled his walls. A voice accompanied the clamor.

“Rent’s due, rat. Open up, or I’ll smash the bloody door in and make _you_ pay to replace it!”

Gan rubbed his eyes open. Jumbled thoughts clunked along beneath a fog of sleeplessness. The landlord was at his door. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the horizon, and the landlord was at his door, but the landlord had no _reason_ to be at his door because he’d already received this month’s rent and, _god,_ Gan didn’t have anything more to offer. A pear, maybe? Some cherries? He contemplated scooping up a handful of the fruit on his way to the door, but shook the thought away. _Stupid_. That critique froze in his mind when he rose to brave the cold.

Gan tugged a sleeve over his palm and twisted the doorknob. The metal felt like ice beneath the fabric, resisting his efforts.

“What are you, locking me out now?”

Gan snorted and wrenched the handle. It took two tries and all his body weight before the door popped open on frosted hinges. He staggered back, then watched his breath mist as he shifted into the threshold.

“If you waited two more seconds,” Gan clenched his teeth against a wave of chattering, “you’d know I wasn’t. What is it, Oli?”

“Rent.” Olivander Wentson glared down the bridge of his nose, heavy black brows disappearing into wild sideburns. Gan used to wonder how the man shaking him down for coin each month could look so gaunt. Later, he realized the addictions his money was funding. At least it gave him a house. “Why else do I come here? To listen to your insolent blathering? To bring you fruit baskets?”

“It’d be nice.” Gan glanced over his shoulder at his basket from the night before. It was nearing empty; before bed, he’d had a guilty feast. “And it’d make more sense. I already paid my rent. Harass me next month.”

Gan moved to swing the door shut, but Olivander thrust his body in the way. His voice rose, shrill, and Gan’s head pulsed in response. “You wait! You wait just one _moment_. You forget who owns the floor you stand on. You forget—”

“ _You_ forget I already gave you your damn money.” Gan jerked the door open wider and the man stumbled before crinkling his nose and smoothing the front of his vest. Gan snorted at the display. “Even if I didn’t, you don’t look like you’re too bad off.”

“I ought to remove you from this place here and now, with the presumptuous tone you’re using with me.”

A muscle twitched downward at the corner of Gan’s lips, and he shut them. His eyes ached with fatigue, his heart with irritation, but he recognized the ice cracking beneath his feet. It was thin, and he was already cold enough without taking that plunge. He forced his voice to a low evenness that he hoped sounded polite. Or, at least, nonthreatening.

“Will you please. Explain to me. What’s going on? Why do I need to pay you twice in the same week? Genuinely asking.” His words came slow, and he monitored them carefully. It helped to add the expletives in his head: _Greedy bastard. Stingy jackass. Careless git._

“It’s been brought to my attention that I’ve been…we’ll say, selling myself short. You see? Most of my residents have family staying with them. Multiple families. They pay double, _triple_ what you do, and make more use of the property.” Oli pressed a knuckle to one nostril and sniffed while he recovered his train of thought. “Ah… Where was I? Yes. Yes, so, I rather think, if you’re intent on staying here, you make up for what I’ve been losing.”

Gan moved his mouth silently. He didn’t trust his tongue to form an appropriate reply. All he could think of was Olivander’s words echoing back to him from another pair of lips.

_You really are selling yourself short with these, you realize._

“As it happens, I’ve already gotten one offer from a young—”

“Blonde. Real tall. Golden eyes, I bet.” Gan watched bewilderment move across Oli’s features. The man licked his lips, as though it would help him find a proper response.

“Now, I would never violate the privacy of my clients—”

“Well, it must be someone I know. They’re aware of my living situation, after all. Must be, if they’re coming to you with better deals.”

“Ah, well, of course that’s…” Olivander blinked, stroking at a chest padded only by his clothing. His expression turned dark. “I won’t argue with you. You have until the end of the day to collect three more shillings. I trust I needn’t explain what happens should you fail.”

“Three…” Gan’s jaw went slack, even as his hand tensed into a fist. “I was lucky if I made three shillings in a _week_ , and that was back when I was working. I already paid six. How the hell do you expect…” He cut himself off, stopped focusing on the conversation and succumbed to the chill around him. It would numb him before reality could sink in its claws. “Three more shillings.”

“Three more shillings. That’s how much I’d be getting from other residents. I’m certain you can manage. You’d be surprised how the threat of vagrancy motivates us.”

“I’m sure you know all about that.”

“What’s that now?”

“Didn’t say anything.” Gan’s thumbnail dug a groove into the wood of his door. He stared hard at his landlord’s face until the details blurred. “And if I don’t make it…you’ll kick me out.”

“I’ll make room for someone who _can_ make it.” Olivander sniffed again, twitching a nose that was red with broken veins. “You shouldn’t be so selfish, besides. You may not be living here next week, but a whole family will gain a new home. And you’ll find a place. It’s funny how resilient we are.”

 _I’m sure money helps feed that resilience._ Gan said no more. He simply shut his door against an indignant shout and returned to bed. He sat with his head in his hands and scanned the room. Covered canvases stood white as ghosts around him. If he sold them, ghosts would be all that remained of his beloved masterpieces. If he didn’t, and he ended up on the streets again, he could very well become a specter himself. A heavy breath pushed through his lungs and he coiled up onto his side. This might be his last opportunity to rest in a bed. He took advantage of it.

Two thoughts followed Gan beneath his blanket: First, when sleep claimed him, he hoped the cold would keep him there forever. At the same time, he hoped it wouldn’t, because then he could never retaliate against that golden devil.

Spite kept Gan’s heart beating warm until he woke hours later. A rustling nearby snagged his attention and he twisted onto his other side, searching for the source. He noticed a shadow first, shuffling through the envelopes on his desk. His heart throbbed once, painfully, as he squinted for a better view. Then, the shadow grew fur just as dark, and yellow eyes found his.

“Meow.”

“Don’t.” Gan sighed, pushing his face into a pillow that was too cold to be comforting. He dragged himself upright. His breath shuddered out in streams of grey. “C’mere. Belle. Hey.”

Belle ignored him, burrowing beneath mounds of parchment. She disappeared, all but her tail, which flicked idly back and forth. Gan let her keep her haven. He didn’t know how much longer she’d have it.

“Three shillings.” Gan huffed a bitter laugh and tightened the quilt around his shoulders. Years ago, three shillings were scraps; now, they seemed an impossibility. Of course, it also felt impossible that he was wearing rubies again. Gan turned his hand beneath the glare of a white, wintry sun. The gem on his finger cast a bright red mosaic over his mattress. Even the light it reflected looked expensive. Gan thrust his hand into a pocket, shed his blanket, and started out the front door. Belle followed.

“Gonna keep me company today?” Gan leaned to scratch her ears while he walked. Belle nuzzled his calf in return. Then, her ears pricked forward, and she dashed after an unseen enemy. Gan straightened and shook his head. “Guess not.”

It was best that he walked alone anyway. The deeper Gan delved into the city, the busier the streets became. Not even winter’s chill warded people off these days. On the contrary: Crowds swarmed the merchant square with unprecedented urgency. Most buzzed about the food stands, bargaining for what crumbs they could. Normally, that endless line inconvenienced Gan, as he set out for meals and came home hungry. Now, however, he avoided that horde entirely. He was much more interested in a far less practical shop.

“Ah, a customer.” Amethyst eyes regarded Gan’s approach with suspicion. Even so, the boy welcomed him with a flutter of the hand. “Please, feel free to browse.”

“I’m not really looking to buy.” Gan ignored how filthy his shirt looked compared to the crisp white blouse the other boy donned. He twisted off his ring and tossed it on the counter. “ _You_ buy though, right? How much for a ring like that?”

The jeweler raised a fair brow before setting aside the necklace he shined. A gloved hand rose to fix his glasses, and delicate silver beads clinked together where they dangled from the frames. At last, the boy leaned forward to examine Gan’s ring, and his eyes shot open wide.

“You—Where did we obtain this ring?” The boy reached to touch it, hesitated, and then bumped into the shelves behind him. Gan noticed the bob of his throat, and he frowned.

“We…? I don’t know. Someone gave it to me. Point is, it’s mine and I don’t want it. What price—”

“No. None. We absolutely, most certainly, will _not_ be purchasing that ring under even the most extraordinary circumstances. Now, has anything else caught our eye, or is this farewell?”

Gan stared at the boy, his mouth hanging open on wordless disbelief. He blinked once, then narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong with my ring?” He pushed it across the table, and the boy recoiled. “ _What?_ Look, I’ll give it to you for three shillings. I’m sure it’s worth a hundred times more than that, but that’s all I need, and I’ll take it.”

“Not three shillings. Not one shilling. Not a single penny from me. No.”

“Why?” Gan’s hand fisted over the accessory. “Do you think it’s cursed or something? You haven’t even looked at it.”

The boy fumbled for words, then settled on, “I’m most certain it’s a false jewel. And… And I swear, if I examine this, and my suspicions prove true, I will contact the proper authorities.”

“It’s not fake.” _The asshole who gave it to me_ _is too proud to own imitations._ “Look at it with your little…magnifying glass or whatever. You should be able to tell the difference, right?”

The boy pursed lips that were tinted a rosy hue. “We must sense my reluctance by now, but… Well, let’s see. Give it here before we hold up the line.”

Gan glanced over his shoulder at the nonexistent line. He shook his head once, then dropped the ring in an outstretched palm. The boy pinched it between two fingers, a crease forming between his brows. Then, he retrieved a small magnifier—“ _Loupe_ is the proper term,” he said—and replaced his spectacles with it.

“Hmm… Ah. Mm. This… Ah.”

Each time the jeweler hummed or clicked his tongue, Gan grit his teeth. He occupied himself by scanning the bottled fragrances on the boy’s back shelf. For some reason, the scent of roses and lavender tickled his memory. He wondered if it came in a golden bottle, to match the eyes of the man who wore it.

“Why… We weren’t fibbing, now.” The boy looked up, his face struck by astonishment. “It’s real.”

“Yeah.” Gan paused. “Okay. Can I sell it?”

“Well—I—It’s just—Certainly we—” Those violet eyes darted about, seeking explanation. “Why, you _must_ have stolen this item. Look at you. What business would you have owning valuables precious as this?”

“I told you, it was a gift. Someone gave it to me.”

“Yes, _gave_ it to you, I’m sure. At knifepoint, I presume?”

“Are you fucking kidding—” Gan stopped. The jeweler appeared jittery, his fingers never stopped twitching, and whenever he shifted a certain way, a dash of red showed beneath his collar. Gan’s expression blanked, and he gestured to his own neck. “Did…someone—”

The boy jerked his scarf into place. “That’s enough. I’ll play no part in your offenses. Go. Take your wicked ring and go.”

“Wait, your neck, who—”

“Police! I’ll have the police here in an instant. Police! Go. Get. At once. I am explicitly not permitted to buy this ring and I will not discuss it any longer. Police!”

Gan snatched the ring back. His heart jumped as he staggered away from the stand. The jeweler boy continued his shouting, and heads began to turn their way. Gan just kept walking, his stride calmer than he felt. When he stood far enough away, he covered the twin scars on his own neck. His other hand squeezed the ruby he’d been unable to abandon. His heartbeat didn’t settle until he turned onto the street leading back to his house.

 _It won’t be my house for long_.

When he stepped through the front door, his heart started racing again. His body knew what he was about to do, even as his mind rejected the idea. He focused on the physical discomfort, the pain of his heart tearing in two, and let his hands move without thought. It would be easier if he didn’t think about it.

So, Gan didn’t think. He spread his old quilt over his bed, and placed painting after painting in the middle, and wrapped them up, and hoisted them over his shoulder, and didn’t think. He didn’t think about which portraits he packed, didn’t think about what he might lose by the end of the day, or the price he’d pay for what he might keep. He simply moved along, offering Belle an absent pat on the head before he departed.

Each time a thought threatened to invade his mind, Gan shoved it down, letting it claw at the depths of him instead. He stalked over busy streets, and dodged horse-drawn carriages, and shifted his bundle of art to his other shoulder whenever one grew tired. At last, he settled on the outskirts of the merchant’s square, far from the jeweler’s stand. Few other tables stood around him. The one to his right sold fruit baskets. He scoffed, unable to block his next thought.

 _I hate him_.

Gan knelt to unpack his paintings. He handled them with care, even as stress shook the tips of his fingers. He had no table. No frames. He didn’t even have coin to offer change, should someone require it. Unless they needed a single penny back, of course.

 _I_ hate _him_.

He tried balancing his canvases upright. When each toppled over, he left them, and dropped down among them, bundling up in his quilt. He watched people file up to the fruit stand, though they were all more interested in the food than the handwoven baskets themselves. Gan’s stomach rumbled as he observed. He fisted a hand over his gut and waited.

“Selling paintings,” he called to a passing group. One woman glanced his way, then quickly pretended not to. The rest ignored him entirely. He crossed his legs, rested his chin in a palm, and swallowed the annoyance that already threatened to overwhelm him.

“Hey. Selling cheap paintings here. Sixpence.”

One bearded fellow passed without looking his way, dropping a handful of coins as he went. Gan stared after him, glanced around, then scrambled to retrieve them. He counted four farthings and rubbed the heat from his face. He would be ashamed to accept charity, but four farthings were hardly charitable. He pocketed them.

“Paintings here. Cheap, original paintings. Signed by the artist.” Gan threw up his hands, then massaged a temple. He fell quiet after that, watching the shoes of the people who passed. Once he stopped talking, some walked closer, but none stopped. Gan dropped his head into both hands, raking fingers through his hair. A few strands came loose, and he rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger. _Could use some soap,_ he decided, and envied the golden man’s sweet scent all the more.

“Oi, look at you, sorry sap. Know what’s most important to a seller? Their pitch. Lemme hear it, then.”

Gan raised his head, his gaze traveling up worn pantlegs to a pinstriped vest. Brown eyes peered back at him from a face the same color. Bram scrubbed a hand over tight curls and offered a shrug. “Unemployment put you real low, ain’t it?”

“Out of my face, Cockney bastard.” Gan sighed and dropped his gaze. He rubbed his cheeks again, praying mortification didn’t turn them red.

“Hey now, what if it happens I wanted to buy a picture?”

“Do you?”

“Hell no. Barely want to buy food on my budget. Only thing is, I’ll die without that.”

“Huh.” Gan pressed the heels of his palms to his eyelids. He stiffened when he felt Bram crouch beside him, and blinked his eyes open, wary.

“Relax now, I’m not gonna take off with ‘em.” Bram traced a finger over the jagged lines of a green-painted field. Gan remembered that field, warm with summer’s kiss. He ached to be there now. “You know, my sister likes this kind of shit. Er, art. Anyway, might be you could stop by, see if she’d be interested in buying. She might have some artsy friends, if nothin’ else.”

Bram straightened to his full height. He was not as tall as the golden man, but much taller than Gan, as most men were. Gan stayed seated. Looking up at people was easier to bear that way.

“You saw my house once, didn’t ya? Ugly little thing offa Main?” Bram gestured vaguely to the east. “Swing by once this whole charade crumbles, huh? We’ll slide you some dinner scraps.”

Gan watched Bram’s face, while his own twisted with uncertainty. “You mean that?”

“Don’t really like to waste breath on shit I don’t mean, bub. Breathing’s expensive these days. Everythin’ is.”

“No, but, you really mean that? Me coming over?” Gan bit his tongue against the word _why?_ Instead, he glanced back at Bram’s boots—Surprisingly new and well-maintained—and muttered a thank you. Then, after a beat, “You got those boots the same time you got my ring, didn’t you?”

“Aye! Have some faith, friend. We all splurge once in a while.” But then Bram flashed a grin that spoke a little more honestly. “I’m on my way, then. Meet you around supper? Or not. You’ll sell all these before then, if you’re lucky.”

Gan was not lucky. Anyone who saw the lone artist shivering beside unsold works could tell. Gan supposed misfortune wasn’t a good enough motivator for people to buy from him, though. He watched the sky, admiring it even as its dimming color discouraged him. He almost didn’t notice the woman draw up near to him.

“Those are nice portraits, dearie. How much ye selling for?”

Gan tilted his head back. The lady from the fruit stand smiled down at him, a twinkle in grey eyes. His defenses faltered, then shot up once more. “Just spit on them. That’s how much they feel like they’re worth at this point.”

“Oh, now, it’s nothing to do with you, dearie. Your work is very pretty. But pretty doesn’t fill the belly the closer we get to winter.” The woman chuckled. Gan tensed before he realized the sound was an earnest one, not intended to mock him. “You wouldn’t very well spend your last coin on a vase or a tie when there’s food to be bought, would you?”

Gan’s mouth opened too quick. “Are you buying or—” He bit his lip. The gears clunked along to a halt. He sighed, shoulders slumping beneath his quilt. “Guess you have a point.”

“Well, speaking of food, you could use some, I bet. Been sitting there all day, haven’t had a single bite as far as I saw.” The woman shuffled away on slippered feet. When she returned, it was with a basket of fruit in hand. Gan’s stomach churned to see it. The knotwork, the wood, the _cherries_ … His head snapped up.

“Did a blonde man buy from you yesterday?”

“Dearie, lots of blonde men come by each day, and my memory ain’t all it used to be.”

“You’d remember this one. It was long hair. Yellow eyes. He would have been wearing…blue jacket, I think. A brocade vest.”

“Well… Yes. Yes, I remember him. He was strange, that boy. Very strange.” The woman laughed again. Gan didn’t find it humorous. He stared hard at her face, then her neck, and only glanced away when he found it void of marks. He touched his own.

“Yeah. Strange.” Gan’s hand fell to the fruit basket despite himself. He found a pear and sunk his teeth in deep. _Was it that easy for him?_ he wondered. _Biting into me like I was a fruit?_ He swallowed the wrong way and coughed.

“Oh, careful now. Slow it down. And I’ll tell you what: How’s a shilling and sixpence for one of your works?”

Gan stopped chewing. His brow pinched together, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Suspicion crept back into him, thicker than the juice on his tongue. “That much. Why?”

“That’s how much I sell my baskets for. Now, today I had a lot of people buying fruits separate. An apple here, a plum there. Didn’t make as much as I would have if folks were buying the baskets too, but I have this to spare.” The woman opened gnarled fingers to reveal seven coins. Gan hesitated, then reached to accept them. He gestured to his paintings without moving his eyes from her face.

“Which one do you want?”

“Whichever one you like least.” The woman winked, and Gan’s blood turned cold as the air around him. Kindness felt a foreign, impossible thing. He searched her eyes.

“Take whatever one you want. I can’t choose.” He looked down, drawing his knees to his chest, and took another bite of his pear. _It won’t matter soon; by the end of tonight, I won’t have a house to store them._ “Take two, if you want. You’re overpaying me.”

“Oh, dearie, I am _vastly_ underpaying you. We both know that. But these are desperate days, ain’t they?” The woman surveyed Gan’s paintings for longer than he felt comfortable. He busied his mouth with his meal and kept quiet anyway. “I’ll take the river. My daughter will love the butterflies.”

Gan’s nose crinkled. Butterflies? Did she mean— “They’re moths.” The woman looked surprised, and Gan bit his tongue hard before continuing. “Thanks, though. I’m glad you still find them. Pretty.”

He waited for the woman to scold him. To laugh, or shout, or offer him unwanted social advice. None of that came. Instead, she leaned in close, squinted, and said, “Oh! Moths, yes. It’s obvious now that I look. My eyes are just as bad as my memory, these days. I’m lucky I’m no artist.”

“Well. These baskets are kind of artistic. So,” Gan mumbled. He offered her the portrait, already signed with a swirling _G. R._ “Um. Thanks.”

“Thank you.” The woman smiled. As much as Gan wanted to think it was insincere, he had to believe in that expression. He had no reason not to, even as he searched for one. “Moths were always my favorite anyway. Butterflies are a little too flashy, don’t you think?”

Gan shrugged. He offered another nod of appreciation before looking over the thinning crowds. Already, the sun had set, but he’d met half his goal. That was better than he expected, if he was being honest. It was _something_. He shifted onto his knees and began gathering the other paintings.

“I hope your daughter likes it. And thanks for the basket. I’m gonna…get going.”

“Of course. It’s late. I should pack it in too, for the night. Good luck to you, dearie. And say hi to your friend for me, when you see him again.”

Gan snorted without reply. _If_ he saw that asshole again, he thought a cheerful “hello” would be the last thing he’d say to him. Reluctantly, Gan stripped out of his quilt and used it to wrap his paintings. Then, he set off for one of the nicest homes on his side of the city. Olivander, he hoped, would be struck with a rare spirit of generosity tonight.

*

“A shilling and sixpence are _not_ three shillings. It doesn’t matter how _close_ you were. This is your rent, not a game of horseshoe pitching.”

Gan stood on his landlord’s porch, his back aching under the stack of portraits. At some point, it had started to rain. He’d had to stop to make sure his canvases were face down in their bundle. Other than that, the dampness trickling over his brow, weighing down his curls, didn’t bother him. It was cold, but he’d been cold all day, so that hardly mattered. He didn’t mind it, but the fact that Olivander didn't invite him inside to dry off was telling.

“This is not my rent. My rent is six shillings, which I _paid_ you. What you’re having me give you now is bonus. An extra _treat_ you decided you want on impulse. And you decided you wanted it all in one day, by the way, which is _impossible._ So, take what I’ve got. I’ll have the rest tomorrow. With interest, if you suddenly decide you want that too.”

Olivander searched Gan’s face before straightening his spine, trying hard to appear even taller. _As though it’s necessary._ Gan stood on his toes, and still didn’t reach the man’s chin. “Very well then. Hand me what you’ve made.”

Gan rolled his eyes at his own relief. It moved through him like the heat of a fire to stave off the cold. He dumped his coins into an almost skeletal hand. Bony fingers curled around it, and Oli took a step back, bowing his head. “That’ll do. I’ll have men out by sunrise to remove your personal effects. Anything you don’t claim by then will be auctioned, donated, or scrapped, depending on the quality. It’s been a pleasure, Ganymede. Good night.”

With each word, Gan’s heart plunged deeper in his chest. His mouth went dry, and he had to swallow a few times before he could make it work. “Wait. You just had me give you my money. I thought—”

“ _My_ money, Mr. Ganymede, for my troubles. It is not the full amount I asked for, but—”

“No,” Gan said. “No. That’s horse shit. If you’re going to take my house anyway, give me my coin back. If I had known, I wouldn’t have brought it here. Return it.”

“My apologies. As I mentioned, you should gather your belongings before dawn. I ask that you leave your key beneath the front matt. However, as I anticipate you will not do this, I will use this money to change the locks. That is all I have to say on the matter, and I wish you the best in your future endeavors.”

The landowner shut his door. Gan almost wedged a foot in it. He almost pounded on the polished wood and screamed until his frustrations fell silent. Instead, he swallowed every impulse, letting them simmer on his way home.

This was the last night he could call it that.

Standing outside of the shambling apartment, Gan thought he should feel grateful. The structure seemed to crumble even as he watched. Chipped shingles flaked away, and the paint peeled in ribbons. He should feel privileged to leave it for something new. Even so, this was Gan’s first house that he could call his own. He was alone here, but that was alright. It was better than being surrounded by people and still feeling lonely. Besides, he had Belle. He liked to think that Belle considered this home as well. She always returned to it, even after weeklong hunts. Now, though…

Gan didn’t unlock the front door. Instead, he set aside his paintings and threw his weight against the wood, over, and over, and over again. Small sounds of exertion broke on his lips each time his shoulder rammed the entrance. The doorframe shuddered, and the hinges began to shriek beneath his weight. He didn’t stop, hurling his body into the door from different angles. His back. His knee. His shoulder. His back. Finally, the hatch shattered and the door swung open without effort. Gan stumbled to his knees, catching himself against the splintered frame. His breaths came quick and heavy as he scanned the room.

_Fine, take this place. What’s left it._

Gan tossed his letters on the porch with his paintings. He threw clothes overtop of those, all except for a shirt that he wrapped around his knuckles. He came forward then, driving his fist through the only glass window the house had left. It burst into a million musical slivers, and Gan dropped the shirt with a shout, staggering away from the mess. He twisted his head in either direction. No Belle. _Thank God._

He snatched up a large shard of glass, plunging it into the fabric of his mattress. Feathers erupted into the air and Gan tore down further, splitting the bed entirely down the middle. He gasped once when the glass ripped his skin and hurled it away.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” Gan pressed a hand instinctively over the wound. When he withdrew to examine it, blood gushed forth, turning his skin to a red, runny mess. He sucked a breath through his teeth and let loose another cry of frustration. He punched the wall then. Again. It caved around his fist, opening a hole that led to busted pipes. His hand throbbed, then went numb. He cradled it to his chest as he shuffled to the washroom.

Once inside, Gan twisted on every rusted faucet. Water guttered out of the washbasin, the tub, and when he finished wrapping his hand in gauze he’d hidden in the back of his cabinet, he shoved the rest in the toilet, clogging it.

 _Fuck him. He took my job. My money. My fucking blood. Now my house?_ “Hope you like it, asshole.”

He imagined golden eyes, bright with shock upon approaching the busted front door. He relished the thought of golden heels wading through gallons of water. Gan splashed through it himself, wondering if it would ice over by morning. _Even better._

Gan occupied the street in front of the house that once was his. On his left, Belle mewed her concern. He stooped down, scooping the cat into his arms. This time, she didn’t squirm away. He was grateful. He stroked velvet ears with a bandaged hand, then gathered up his clothing and portraits with the other. He stepped back and watched the water trickle over his front porch— _The_ front porch, that was no longer his.

He only regretted not having a free hand to wipe away the few hot tears scoring his cheeks. They dripped off his chin and misted in the night air. Then, he turned from the house and set off toward another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to worry: Our golden boy makes a grand return in the next chapter...


	7. Vagabond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a month of grueling essays and exams, I present to you: Gan and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. He just doesn't catch a break, does he? Poor bloke, as Bram would say. Anyway, things will look up soon...maybe. For now, enjoy the ride and know that we are back on schedule again! Feedback is forever cherished if you'd like to leave a word. <3  
> Also feel free to follow me on Tumblr and Instagram @drewyth!

The house he wound up at was Bram’s. Main Street had been a blur to him, swimming in a burning haze of tears. But, when he glanced up and saw that _ugly little thing_ with grimy windows and cobwebs clinging to the brick, uncertainty replaced his anger. He remembered Bram’s invitation, knew it was sincere. Even so, anxiety hammered into him with each knock he laid against the door. When an unfamiliar woman ushered him inside with foreign words, Gan almost fled. He didn’t, though, and nightfall found him seated at a crowded table, shoulders pressed into people on either side. He clutched his paintings on his lap; something familiar to ground him. Claustrophobia seemed a dramatic word to describe Gan’s discomfort, but his heartrate quickened all the same. He felt hot, vulnerable, and his breaths wouldn’t steady even as he tried to focus on the bread and potato parings before him. It was his first warm meal in over a month, but the tension in his stomach made it impossible to enjoy. He gave it to a little boy sitting on the floor beside him.

“Oi, didn’t think you’d be too picky now, given the state you’re in.” It took a moment for Gan to find Bram in the mob of residents. When he did, Bram crossed his arms over an apron. Frayed thread dangled from the oven mittens he wore, and grease glossed his cheeks. “Guess I shoulda expected it, now that I think ‘bout it. You’ve always been a little too posh for the rest of us ‘Cockney bastards.’”

Gan didn’t answer. He was taking care not to speak much around these folks; their harsh cadence and unfamiliar slang made him self-conscious. He didn’t talk like them, and that fact only reminded Gan of where he came from. He pursed his lips against the memory of hot stones scorching his tongue, the painful digs at his flesh when he pronounced a word wrong. He pinched his arms now without realizing it. Perhaps, if he did it more often, he could train himself to talk “the wrong way.” He might be able to fit in then.

_You didn’t belong there, and you don’t belong here._

“What’s caught your mind, muffin?”

Gan felt a weight against the back of his chair and hunched forward, but not too much, lest he dip his elbows into the pasta dish before him. The others weren’t as cautious with their movements, and Gan felt himself jostled to the left and right. With Bram leaning into his back, he was caged on all sides. His fists clenched over his artwork.

“Do you just invite everyone in town to come eat your dinner scraps?” he asked, and flinched when he noticed, again, how out of place his voice sounded. How _posh_. He wondered if Bram and his housemates viewed Gan the same way Gan viewed the golden man. _No way. He’s a thousand times more pretentious, and I at least_ try _not to sound like a spoon-fed show mare._ He scoffed. _I bet he wasn’t even a real Frenchman. He exaggerated his accent too much._ Not like Gan at all. “How many people are here?”

“Ay, just the family, eh? A good fourteen folk we been sharin’ this place with since I was small. ‘Bout your size.” Gan snapped his head around to retaliate against the attack on his height, but Bram kept on. “Family’s what you make it, and all of us? We’re stronger together. You got fourteen people cookin’ and knittin’ and payin’ rent? You’ll make it through the cold months alright. Might not be blood, but blood ain’t what keeps your belly full in the winter.”

 _For most of us, anyway._ Gan shuddered. “You’re sure it’s alright that I’m here? I feel like I’m taking up space.” His eyes cut to Bram’s. “Space you don’t have.”

“Oh, lilac. That’s the funny thing about assumin’ a corporeal form. It tends to take up space.” Bram propped an elbow on the back of his chair, and Gan had to grip the edge of the table to keep himself from toppling backwards. Bram grinned. “You don’t look like you can stomach much more grub, though. Turnin’ green. You had a long night. Why don’t we get you tucked away somewhere, fix them bags under your eyes, yeah?”

Gan scanned the confined area. Tangles of quilts and pillows obscured the dirt flooring. Some of the blankets appeared occupied. Often, more than one person huddled together, presumably for warmth. Gan didn’t understand why: Despite the chill outside, the air around him was stuffy, unbearably warm. The oven could have been to blame, but Gan suspected it was the heat of too many bodies crammed in a one-room apartment. Maybe he could sleep in the washtub. Cast iron was comfier than the touch of a stranger.

Gan sighed and tried to push his chair back. It didn’t get far. “Move, would you?” Gan snapped over his shoulder, and Bram cuffed the side of his head before slipping out of the way. Gan pushed backward again and, this time, his chair hit the solid wooden wall behind him. He half-stood, held his breath, and sidled out from between the table and his seat. He took care not to trample a sleeping boy and his dog on the way.

“Have you seen Belle?” Gan asked as he shuffled around a trio playing Hearts on the floor. Bram stopped to glance at him and Gan shouldered past, eager to keep moving. “My cat. She came in, didn’t she?”

“Hell if I know. There’s plenty enough strays runnin’ around this place. Just scoop one of ‘em up, call her Belle. Take an infant if ya like. Alya’s got twins in her belly now, so there’ll be more to replace whatever you nab.”

Gan snorted and shook his head. Twins. He looked around, doubting if two more people could even _stand_ in this place, let alone go about their daily routines. That suffocating feeling—That was _not_ claustrophobia—returned to him, and he swallowed hard around it.

“A window.” Gan cleared his throat. His voice not only sounded too inappropriately proper now, but choked by something he wouldn’t give a name to. He tried again. “Think we could stick me by a window, Bram? I could use some air.”

Bram did a double take while the request processed. “You want some air? You go outside, huh. You open the window and you’ll give the whole house pneumonia. Cecilia’s already got it, but you know that won’t stop her from pressing her face against the glass anyway. That’s why I’m tryna get her to buy one of those drawings of yours. Be nice if she could look at the trees and shit without risking her health. But fuck, friend, you try convincin’ her of that. Stubborn one, she is.” Bram stopped suddenly and flashed a smile. “I’m proud of her.”

Gan frowned. Relief crackled through him when he stepped close enough to a wall to press his palm against it. Few people loitered nearby, so he determined this was his refuge. To his left, rain sang against a windowpane. He followed the trails of water with his eyes. It reminded him of wet cheeks and the embarrassment that came with them. He gritted his teeth and swiped at his face now, even though it was dry.

“Alright, don’t maintain conversation then. Ain’t no issue.” Bram nudged Gan’s shoulder. When Gan turned to brush him away, Bram nodded at something, and Gan moved to look. “This is her spot, so best be careful staying here. Air’s contaminated. You know how it goes.”

A girl faced the window, black eyes reflecting a black night. Her hair was a mane of tight, wild curls; it was the same texture as Bram’s, but much longer. Some wilted flowers lay hidden in the strands, pretty pastels against a rich, dark backdrop. Once, lightning highlighted the contours of her face and Gan could see that it was strong, even as faint lines of pain tightened her muscles. Her jaw twitched now and again, but other than that, she sat poised with her hands in a quilt-covered lap. She didn’t look at up, even while Bram spoke of her.

“Go on, show her your li’l sketches. Ceci’s got the most money saved of any of us. Says she’s gonna get outta this hell, but unless she’s planning on buying new legs with that coin, well…” Bram shrugged, and his voice dropped lower. “Figure she can escape into a picture for a while, at least.”

Gan furrowed his brow. “You think she can’t hear you? Besides, if she’s trying to save her money, why would she want to waste it on—”

“Oh right! That’s why you didn’t sell anything today. You’re a _shit_ salesman. Talk it up, mate. Make people love these doodles as much as you do. And I _know_ you do, because you’ve been hugging that rubbish to your chest since you walked in here. And see that? You’re all mad I called it garbage. Because _you_ know it’s not. So, convince me. Convince her. Goddammit, bloke, convince _someone_.”

Gan grumbled low in his throat and flicked a lock of hair out of his face. He wasn’t a businessman. Not like his father. His bandaged hand tightened around the stack of canvases. He propped them against the wall and knelt beside Bram’s sister. “You want to buy a painting?”

She didn’t react right away, and Gan wondered if her illness reached her ears too. He almost turned away from the offer when, at last, her eyes flicked to him. No. To his _ring._ His hand twitched involuntarily.

“You’re _really_ in need of coin, ain’t ya.” Her voice was flat, gravelly, and Gan tensed against its blunt edge. All at once, he felt defensive. Bram spoke before he had the chance.

“Oi, Ceci, lay off him a bit. Bloke’s poor as you and me. Sure, he’s got pretty words and a prettier ring, but that old thing? It was a gift from some nutter of a customer. Only good thing that came of his visit. You remember the one I told you ‘bout? The one with the vest?”

“The one without the vest, you mean.” The girl named Cecilia smirked, and the gesture softened her features, made her look younger. Gan wondered how old she was; the discomfort in her eyes aged her, but that was all. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, sixteen at most, he decided. “You snatched that off him real quick, didn’t ya Bram?”

“Same as this one snatched the ring. Anyway, you see what luck he has tryna sell shit. I’m sure if he knew how to fuckin’ communicate, he’d have pawned that thing by now. But, hell, you talk to him for five minutes and tell me if you think that’s likely.”

Gan stared ahead, eyes dull. “Great, so, are we done bonding over how shit I am with people or…”

Cecilia’s smirk returned, baring half a row of white teeth. “Lemme see your wares. Doesn’t matter how bad your words are if your work is any good.”

“Oh yeah? And what work have _you_ been selling lately?” Bram asked her pointedly. “Foul mouth.”

 _Sibling banter_. Gan shook his head, though something painful tugged at his heart. He thrust it down. He was _glad_ he didn’t have a brother or sister to irritate him like this. Yes, _glad_ he hadn’t been born into an inescapable rivalry with another Reid. He liked being an only child. He liked the solitude and pressure and _silence_. Of course he did. He sighed.

“Look, I haven’t got all night. If you want to look through these things, great. If not, I’m gonna go find a tub to curl up in. After I find my cat.”

“That cat?” Cecilia pressed a chewed nail to the glass. For the first time since Gan spotted her, she looked amused. He perked up and followed her gaze. Sure enough, a little black cat zigzagged between raindrops, catching the runoff from a gutter in muddy paws. “She’s got fire. I’d buy _that_ little thing from ya.”

“ _Not on your life._ ” Fire leapt in Gan’s chest. Anger spiked, then plateaued a second later. A joke. She was joking. Gan shook his head. His hands folded together, the nails of one scraping at the palm of the other. “She’s not for sale. But these are.”

Gan handled the paintings with as much gentle caution as he was wont. He displayed an army of birch trees marching against an auburn horizon. There was a stream accented by the silvery scales of fish and moss-covered stones. A bed of orchids and a nest filled with precious blue orbs flanked a clocktower glittering with flecks of snow. His fingers lingered on each one as he laid them down, yearning to feel the flowers or the crisp breezes captured by that paint. He met Cecilia’s gaze and gestured with a curt nod.

“Want any?”

She narrowed her eyes on the portraits and examined each one, but only briefly, as her attention jumped from one scene to the next. Her jaw tightened. Gan mirrored the gesture, working to decipher that expression. It was a hopeless task; Gan could read people as simply as an illiterate could read Dante. He waited for an answer instead, and he received one.

“No.” Cecilia’s eyes returned to the window. The finality in her tone stirred something bitter in Gan. He bet if he had just painted a _fruit bowl…_ The thought darkened his mind so thoroughly, he nearly missed the rest of Cecilia’s words. “I’m saving my money so I can go out and see, with my own eyes, these places you paint. I won’t spend one cent on an imitation. How could I, when the real thing is worth more than all the gold in the world?”

Gan tossed a look at Bram, who shrugged. “Told ya she was stubborn.”

“Happy I wasted my time.” Gan began collecting his pieces when a hand fell over his arm. He instinctively jerked back but met Cecilia’s eyes all the same. She arched a brow at him.

“You want to know what those li’l square pictures remind me of?” She pressed both hands to the window frame and leaned toward the glass. “Everything I see is through a square. You’ll forgive me if I’m not excited to look at more of ‘em. The real world ain’t like that.”

Gan watched the girl’s face. She looked away first, back through the window she treated with such ambivalence. Gan stood slowly, finished retrieving his portraits, and looked to Bram without a thing to say.

“I tell ya, if you had a better pitch—”

“Shut up.” Gan hugged his paintings close. He’d sold only one that night. Just one, and it was a pity sale. It made him wonder if his art was any good after all. If it were, he would have traded at least a few more pieces, wouldn’t he? But if it weren’t, why had the golden man wasted a compliment on him? Had he been sarcastic? Feigning admiration? Suspicion and confusion warred with Gan’s desire to _just not care_. It was funny how apathy only arrived uninvited, and never when he wanted it. He pushed away from the wall. “Where’s your tub?”

“Looking for a privy, are ya?” Bram followed. “Hope you’re not tryna drown those pictures of yours. They’re pretty, honest. But y’know how it is when—”

“I just want. A washtub.” Gan hunched around his canvases and almost missed the blanketed figure beneath his feet. He had to sidestep quickly to avoid stomping on a torso.

“Well, we’ve got the outhouse.” Bram navigated the crowded conditions more gracefully; although, part of his grace rested in the fact that Bram didn’t mind if he crushed a hand or a toe while he strode through. His family, blood or not, must be forgiving. Gan pondered that concept then decided, no, it was more likely that the members retaliated later. Nothing came without cost, even accidents. “If you wanna brave that storm your kitten is loving so much, you can run across the street to use it. Think Grandpa’s out there now, but he won’t be long. If he’s still awake, anyhow.”

Gan stared through the window, scarcely able to make out the crooked wooden shack beneath the storm’s grey veil. “That’s it? What about a tub? You don’t have—”

“Anytime you say somethin’, I gotta kick myself for forgettin’ how high-class you think you are.” Bram crossed his arms. Gan flushed, ducking his head to hide it. “We’ve got a basin in the kitchen where the dishes are soakin’. You need a scrub-down that bad, you can go stand in the rain with a spongeful of vinegar. That’s the best I can do for ya.”

“Bram.” Frustration moved through Gan’s nerves. It wasn’t directed at Bram, he didn’t think, or at his lack of a washtub to isolate himself in for the night. Gan was more irritated with himself, with how demanding he sounded, and with how little he could offer in return for Bram’s accommodations. He tucked his paintings under one arm and dropped the other at his side, defeated. “I only wanted to lay in it. It doesn’t matter. Just point me to a corner and I’ll sleep.”

“Oof.” Bram stepped close and Gan stepped back, wary. “C’mon, bastard. I just wanted a good look at ya. But hey, I don’t need one to know how scrambled you are. Needin’ a full night’s rest, that’s it. Let’s see if we can’t…” Dark eyes skimmed the room. By now, most residents had finished their supper and lay strewn about the floor like autumn leaves in a glade. “Ah, well, seeing as you’ll prob’ly chew off a bloke’s head if someone brushes by you in the night… You said you want a window view?”

Gan glanced back at the window they’d just maneuvered away from. Annoyance must have shown on his face again because Bram spoke up. “Look, mate, I get it. No one wants to breathe her air too long. I’m not tryna toss you to the plague wolves here—”

“I don’t care about sleeping near her,” Gan interrupted, and adjusted the portraits in his arms. If he were better at finding silver linings, he might be grateful he hadn’t had to give any of them up, even if it _was_ for money. He loved his art almost as much as he loved Belle. The pieces, _stupid_ as it sounded in his position, were priceless. “I just walked all the way over here, struggling not to trample anyone, and now we’re walking all the way back.”

“Bloke, I’m sorry, the house ain’t that big. If this little walk has you too winded—”

“It’s not the _length of the walk_. There are _obstacles_ —” Gan kneaded a fist against his temple when Bram laughed. He was messing with him. Gan didn’t know how to take it. “Just, lead the way so I don’t step on anyone.”

Cecilia didn’t look at Gan as he approached, but she acknowledged his presence with the tension in her muscles. Gan wondered if she was annoyed with him for invading her space, or simply surprised someone had the gall to rest so close to her wicked miasma. Gan had already escaped death numerous times in the past week, though. If it was going to come for him now, it was welcome to take him. He tugged his quilt from between his portraits and sat down.

“Anything I can get ya before I go snuggle up with the wifey?”

Gan started, and his eyes flew to Bram’s. He shouldn’t have been surprised; of course the man would have a wife waiting for him. It was common, expected at their age. Gan had to stop forgetting _he_ was the outlier. He shook his head.

“No? Right then.”

Bram hesitated as he looked between Gan and his sister. Gan could see him calculating the distance between them in his mind, no doubt wondering how far airborne contagions could spread. Gan thought it all rather arbitrary. Why would he be in any more danger than the rest of the residents, some curled up only an arm’s length away? He turned to face the wall and lay with his quilt tucked under his chin. He’d had enough conversation for the night. Now, he needed to pretend he was alone, and hope Belle could find her way inside this place once she tired of the rain. Bram wished him an uncertain goodnight and left him to do just that.

 _Funny._ There’d been a time when Gan ached for company. He wasn’t allowed toys as a youth, but he’d had plenty of pillows and books to bundle around himself; only, he pretended they weren’t pillows and books. Some were friends, and he shared secrets with them not meant for anyone else, like how he’d received his newest bruise, or when he’d cried last. Others became pets and Gan named each one lovingly, caressing them often so they did not get lonely. He knew what that felt like. And of course, two of the softest pillows were designated to be Gan’s parents, or what he thought parents _should_ be. They offered soothing hugs and caught his tears without ridicule. Gan tugged his blanket up over his head and shut the memories away. They were ancient, pitiful things, and he had to consider the present.

In the present, he was cradled by the earthy scent of an untiled floor. All but one lamp guttered while he laid there, but moonlight still streamed through the window. He closed his eyes against it. Snoring and the hushed whispers of restless children pricked his ears. He buried his head beneath his arms to block the din. Two arms, it turned out, were no match against fourteen mouths. He sighed and gave up.

After a while, Gan sat upright. The rain had died to a dull trickle, so its music could not soothe him. He held his breath and wished everyone around him would do the same, if only for a minute. But, looking about, he knew there were too many. He saw the adults who’d skipped dinner—Hadn’t Bram been one of them? —so the children might have more. Skinny kids rubbed at prominent ribs and runny noses, their brows twitching fitfully while they dreamed. When his gaze moved to the front windows, Gan caught elders looking through them too, moonlight brightening misty eyes. Their hands folded together, likely in prayer, and their feet twitched as though they wanted to leave this place, _soon_ , so they did not remain a burden.

Gan could sympathize. He folded his knees under his chin. His brow furrowed so deeply, he felt a headache coming on. He rubbed the pain from his temples, even as it was replaced with the heavier sensation of guilt. He should not stay here. He could not take advantage of such an altruistic bunch when he had nothing to offer. He was bleeding them, _posh boy_ that he was, monopolizing space and resources that he had no right to. He could take care of himself, had done so for years. And now, he needed to go.

Gan retrieved the envelopes buried deep in his canvases. In one, a sleek black pen dripped ink that was self-contained. The body of the pen—Which once said _Reid_ but was now thoroughly defaced _—_ felt unpleasantly warm in his hand. He knew it had less to do with the temperature and more to do with his _hatred_ of the utensil, but he could not come into Bram’s home and steal his ink too. He turned the envelope over, glanced around, and began to write.

He started the letter the same way he always did: With an apology. He detailed his gratitude and apologized for stirring things up, only to leave unannounced. And, without reading it over, he signed Bram’s note. _Sincerely, A “Right Sorry Bloke.”_ He folded the envelope in half and set it on the floor.

It didn’t stay there long. After he’d gathered his belongings, and checked to see that he hadn’t woken anyone in the process, Gan snatched the note back into his pile. It was too private, he couldn’t let anyone see, had _never_ let anyone see. He thought he’d change that tonight. He thought wrong. He paused. Finally, he cast his eyes to Cecilia’s chair. She sat with her head slumped against her shoulder, sleeping.

Gan couldn’t leave the letter. But he could leave _something_.

Besides, if he was going to be moving around, he needed to travel light. He set his paintings before him. His hands shook before he’d even come to terms with his plan. His mouth felt dry, his heart heavy, but a glimmer of something brighter lit the edges of his spirit. It soothed him some. He convinced himself his fumbling was a product of his wounded hand and nothing more. He fought the trembling; it risked ruining his project, and he couldn’t have that now.

Working carefully, Gan used the sharp edge of his ring to cut through one of his canvases. The sound of its ripping must have echoed the tear in his heart. He accepted it and moved on to a second portrait. He teared away certain pieces purposefully. With great precision and care, he followed the gentle curves of streams, and the jagged points of mountains and leaves, and the rounded glow of a painted sun. As he cut each one out, he spread them on the floor around him. Individual pieces of five different portraits lay scattered about. They were no longer part of a greater, integrated whole. No longer part of a _square._

Then, Gan moved to the wall in front of Cecilia’s chair. He dampened the backs of each piece of canvas so, when he pressed them to the wood, they stuck there. He framed the window with leaves of varying shapes and colors. The stream wound underneath it, a sloping stretch of rippling blue paint. Textured trees filled with silhouettes of birds stretched toward a faux sun, which overlooked the entire project.

When Gan clambered back from the newly decorated wall, his breath caught. It was strange, seeing his works so dissected and repurposed. He didn’t have time to contemplate, though. Just then, Cecilia’s head rose, and Gan gathered his remaining possessions into his arms. He fled the house as stealthily as he could, all while dodging the sleeping figures underfoot.

Soon, the only creature beneath his feet was Belle. The cat batting playfully at his ankles, paired with the fresh aroma the rain left behind, relieved him. Night clouds still sprinkled him with light sprays of water. He tilted his face to meet it, tightening the quilt around his shoulders. The tension eased from his muscles the longer he walked, but only because he wasn’t thinking of his destination. He refused.

Gan didn’t think about where he was headed even an hour later, when he arrived there. A red brick wall greeted him, meticulously ornamented with thick chords of ivy. That foliage formed a perfect ladder to the second-story balcony. Gan glanced at Belle, who cocked her head at him curiously.

“It’s just for tonight,” he whispered. “Just until morning, so I’m not sleeping on the streets again.”

If animals could shrug, Gan thought Belle would have. He took the simplicity with which she trotted off as an agreement.

“Just for tonight,” Gan repeated, and realized he was only saying it to appease himself. He swallowed hard, tucked his items into the knot of a tree, and began his ascent. It was a graceless endeavor. He thought, once he found the first sturdy foothold and latched onto a firm cluster of leaves, the rest would be simple.

Not so.

Gan smacked his head, hard, the first time he fell. After that, he learned to roll into the falls, or twist his body more defensively once he hit the ground. He tried a number of approaches. He climbed slowly and tripped himself up on unseen vines. He launched himself at the wall at full speed, scrambling for purchase before tumbling down just as fast. He focused on strength instead of agility and wrenched an entire section of ivy from the wall. He just laid among the wreckage, after that.

Finally, Gan curled his fingers around one vine, shoved his heel down on another, and only managed to scale the building with a stream of curses to propel him. His heart leapt when he touched the marble balcony and, grunting, he hoisted himself over the railing. And now, gazing at his reflection in the windowed bedroom doors—He felt an utter creep.

Gan sighed, ruffling his fingers through disheveled curls. He wished he had his bandana to tame those unruly locks. But, as he recalled from one unfortunate conversation at the auction house, Rose rather liked his hair. Right now, he would take anything that might work in his favor. Gan clenched his teeth, raised his bandaged hand to the door, and knocked.

Part of him hoped he wouldn’t receive an answer. The rest of him knew better. When big green eyes peered around sheer white curtains, startled at first and then ecstatic, he knew he was trapped. His throat bobbed when he waved. _Just one night_.

Rose swung open the double doors, frantic. “Gan! What are you doing here? Gan, you’re soaked. And what happened to your hand? Oh, you’ve got a cut on your forehead. Here, come here, let me see.”

Gan backed automatically against the railing, so there was no where to go when Rose advanced. She pressed one hand to Gan’s temple. The other covered his heart like she wanted to close her fingers around it and smother him completely. Gan shrugged away.

“Rose. I’m fine. I just…” he sought an excuse, but the panic in the girl’s eyes distracted him. He shouldn’t have come here. “I had a…flood. Back at my house.” It wasn’t a lie. “I just need somewhere to stay for the night while things get—”

“Oh, a flood, Gan that’s _dreadful_.” The hands closed around Gan’s arm now and he shrunk beneath the hold. “You can stay here. Okay? You can take a bath and change into some of my father’s clothes and I’ll even get you more blankets if you need them, your teeth are chattering, I can’t imagine what you must be suffering, poor, poor thing.”

“Rose,” Gan said again, firmly. She didn’t stop for breath, so he had to be the one to stop her. He shuffled to the side, and she followed. “Look.” He paused, monitoring the clunk of those gears, and spoke slowly. “I appreciate the. Concern.” _It’s not overbearing at all, and I’m definitely not suffocating under it_. “I don’t need a lot, though. Just stick me on the floor somewhere. I’m dead on my feet here. Just need a warm place to sleep for a few hours. I’ll be gone before sunrise.”

“You better not be.” Rose’s brows twisted up high on a fair face. “Gan, you’re hurt, and you’re exhausted. You felt a little warm, too, like you may be falling ill. Let me check again.”

Gan turned his face away before their skin made contact. The desire to flee was a turbulent force within him. _What the hell was I thinking?_ “Rose. Please.”

That last plea sounded raspier than he intended. Fatigue was catching up to him, manifesting as a cloud around his thoughts. He leaned against the railing for support. Rose’s expression fell.

“…Okay.” She retreated into her nightgown, looking him over. The utter _concern_ in her gaze discomfited him. It wasn’t a look he was familiar with, and it wasn’t one he knew how to respond to, so he didn’t. He let Rose lead him inside.

Rose’s bedroom was bigger than Bram’s house. Brilliant pink roses ornamented walls the color of ivory. Statuettes of tiny dancers and music boxes inlaid with gemstones occupied every table and shelf. And there, above a flickering hearth, hung a framed portrait of pinecones. Gan paused in the doorway. It didn’t matter that Rose held his hand, guiding him inside; he was an intruder here. He flinched when Rose closed the doors behind them, confining them both to the same place.

“This is your first time seeing it, I know.” Rose hurried to light a lamp on her nightstand before drifting back to his side. “I have my own washroom right through there if you’d like to clean up. I really don’t mind. I won’t peek either.”

 _That isn’t reassuring._ “That’s alright, Rose. Seriously. I’ll just sit. Here.” He lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs awkwardly. Again, he analyzed his patterns of speech. At Bram’s, he’d felt inauthentic; a wealthy play actor desperately trying to blend in with a genuine working class. Here, his mumbling was too stilted and harsh; he didn’t have nearly the same polished elegance that Rose did. He fidgeted with the loose threads of his vest. It was filthy.

“You can come sit with me.” Rose perched on the edge of a plump mattress. Her fingers curled around one of the heavy posts set into the frame, tracing intricate woodwork. “Um, if you want to. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m comfortable here. Thanks.”

“It isn’t improper, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Rose’s voice was high, forceful in a way that sounded like she was only trying to convince herself. She fretted with the hem of her gown. “You’re only here as a friend and I know you don’t have ill intentions. Unless… Unless you are trying to court me, in which case—”

“ _Rose_ ,” Gan interrupted emphatically. He held up his hands, palms out, as she slipped off her bed to move toward him. He couldn’t suppress a tired groan. “Rose, what are you doing now?”

“I’ve known you for over a year and I’ve never understood your intentions with me. Sometimes you give me gifts, and… Well, sometimes you make me pay for them. You let me hold your hand every once in a while. I like that. And sometimes you’re mean, but I know it’s only because you work so hard. You get stressed, and who doesn’t? But the point is, you’re here _now_. You needed help and you came to me, because you trust me. You knew you could rely on me. And you _can_. Gan, you can. I will always help you, even when you don’t know you need my help. And I’ll do it all because I love—”

“Stop. Rose, stop.” Gan dropped his head into his fists, knotting his hands into tangled curls. Something hot and prickly flared up inside him. It threatened to force him out of his own skin. But he couldn’t flee now; it would be cowardly to run when there was so much to address.

Gan raised his head slowly, meeting the young green eyes of the girl before him. Her hands hovered between them uncertainly, so Gan sighed and gave her his to hold onto. He owed her some measure of conversation, even if the words risked coming out wrong. He cleared his throat of something thick. “Rose, I am the worst possible candidate for a love interest you could have. Ever.”

“But—”

“No. It’s true. I’m a pretty big piece of shit and I don’t have anything going for me right now. Like, at all. I lost my only job, which wasn’t exactly glamorous to begin with, and your father’s twenty-percent deal isn’t going to get me through the winter. It _especially_ isn’t going to get me a new place, so I’m basically homeless—”

“Gan, I thought you said it was just a flood.”

“That’s not the _point_.” He squeezed Rose’s hands, more out of frustration than anything, then softened his grip once more. “I don’t know how to talk to people and I can’t figure myself out, let alone anyone else. You don’t want to be with someone like that. You might think you do… I don’t know. You’re wrong. You’re better than this. A fuck ton of a lot better than me. And I never meant to lead you on. I seriously…don’t know how you got that impression in the first place, but I’m sorry you did. And if me showing up here just confused you more—I’m sorry for that too. Shit. I’m sorry for a lot of things. And I’m sorry you didn’t get your fucking sunset.”

The words streamed out as quickly as the ink from his pen when he wrote. He finished up feeling like he’d just read one of his letters aloud. The thought numbed him, and he sat there dumbfounded, not knowing what to say next. The gears were silent.

Rose watched him, just as quiet. She untangled her fingers from Gan’s and retreated a few paces. Her face flushed pink, even as her expression twisted into one of defeat. When she spoke, her voice was nearly swallowed by the crackle of the hearth. “I’m sorry. It’s just. I…fancy someone.”

 _As though it weren’t obvious_. “Yeah?” Gan asked dully. He wondered why he’d bothered saying anything at all if they were simply looping back to _this_. “Who’s that?”

Rose dropped her gaze. Her lip quivered, and she bit down on it. Gan thought she might cry, but then she didn’t. “One of…my maids.” Rose’s voice trembled, and Gan noticed she’d gone from picking at her nightgown, to scraping at her skin. “Madelyn. I know. I _know_ it isn’t right of me. I’ve been trying to fight it, honest. And maybe that’s why I…”

Rose’s eyes returned to Gan’s. Now, they were bright with tears. “I don’t want you to think less of me. It’s just…I’ve never felt for a man the way I feel for her. And I thought, if I could make myself fall for one… Or maybe, if I chased a boy my father disliked—No offense meant—perhaps he would be _relieved_ if I later told him I loved Madelyn instead. He likes her well enough, much more than he likes you. Again, no offense intended. Anyway, _I’m_ sorry. I was the one using you. And I understand if you’re disgusted by me because… Well, I’ll grow out of it. That’s what the nurse told me. I’ll change my mind eventually. So, don’t worry. I might love you one day.”

Gan narrowed his eyes on the girl’s face. The numbness spread throughout his body until his mind buzzed. He tightened his jaw, untightened, and his fists curled so hard, his nails punctured his skin. _She’s teasing me_. He blinked. _She found out about me,_ somehow _, and now she’s mocking me._

One look at Rose’s face, though, and even _he_ could tell she was sincere. She buried her face in her hands. “Please say something. I’ll take it all back. I was _joking_. Gan, of course I don’t fancy—”

“Rose.” The gravity in his tone silenced her. Her eyes looked to his, pleading, and he looked back. The tension seeped from his muscles, replaced by some strange sympathy. _Am I going to tell her?_

“Yes, Gan?” she urged, edging close again. “What is it?”

“You’ve been…honest with me.” Gan sighed, swallowed, and glanced away. Her gaze was too heavy for him to hold. His arms wrapped around himself. “So. I think I want—”

“Rosalie? Rose?” The crowing of a familiar voice echoed through the wall. It grew closer as the atmosphere grew tense. “Rose, who _are_ you speaking to at this late hour?”

“No one, father!” Rose froze, her eyes even wider than usual. She dropped her voice to a harried whisper. “If he finds you in here, he’ll throw you off that balcony. Father, it’s Madelyn! She—”

“Madelyn is the one who alerted me to your—” The door swung open. Rose staggered to her feet. The ice in Gan’s blood prevented him from following suit. He stayed on the floor, staring straight ahead. “ _Rosalie_ , is this—The painter boy? Honestly?”

“Father, he needed a place to sleep! His house is flooded, he’s lost _everything_. This is the only time he’s ever been here. I—If you don’t let him stay, I’ll _scream._ ”

Scream, Rose did. It lent a piercing ambience to the conflict. Gan choked as the collar of his shirt dragged him upright. The auctioneer gripped him tight, and Gan struggled against the hold. He jerked to the side, thrashing at his captor. Rose’s father met his efforts with equal ferocity. He wrestled Gan back against his chest, and Gan’s feet left the floor for a moment before he reached back and wrenched the man’s hand away. Adrenaline pumped into him, but each time he freed himself, the auctioneer yanked him in again. Gan was strong, but this man had _size_ over him.

“Let go of me and I’ll fucking _leave_ ,” Gan spat. He dodged another strike and staggered backwards to the balcony doors.

“You’ll leave when I throw you out the same window you snuck through, you debauched fiend!” The man roared in his booming auctioneer’s voice. “Pervert! Devil! You’ve been chasing my dear flower for _months_. I’ve let it go on too long.”

Gan chewed off a growl. Fire leapt behind his eyes. His budding fondness for Rose was overtaken by the shrieking of gears. “Are you _kidding me_? She was the one chasing _me_. No one made her buy my paintings. No one—”

“ _Silence_ , runt.” The auctioneer drove forward. His fingers dug bruises into Gan’s biceps. Then, he thrust Gan through the balcony doors. Rose’s screams rose an octave. Wood splintered, and glass rained around him.

“You are _through_ lying to me, sir.” The man twisted Gan’s arms behind his back. He forced him backwards over the railing until Gan’s spine shot through with pain. He hissed between his teeth as the man continued. “I ignored your deceit with the paintings. _Of course_ a gutter rat like you could not craft such masterpieces. But they brought in money, so I allowed it. Now? If you think I will overlook your attempts to _defile_ my dear Rose—”

Gan broke free again. His body wept where glass slivers breeched his flesh. Pain and rage and _exhaustion_ coiled together to form a barb around his heart. “I know you’re used to buying her whatever she wants, but you couldn’t _pay me_ to fuck your daughter. I know you’re so obsessed with the idea, I’d hate to disappoint—”

Sparks erupted in Gan’s vision. He swayed on his feet before clutching his nose. He blinked a few times, disoriented. His hand came away streaked with red. _The bastard hit me_. He might have struck back, had Rose not darted in between them.

“ _Enough_. This is enough, both of you.” Rose hesitated. Tears streaked her cheeks; a weapon against her father. The man faltered, even as he wiped Gan’s blood from his knuckles. The sight infuriated Gan all over again, but he swallowed the rage. Even if he won, he would lose.

“Gan.” Rose’s voice wavered. She wouldn’t look at him. “You need to leave.”

She didn’t need to say it again. Gan cupped his palm back over his nose. Warm liquid trickled between his fingers. The instant he stepped out of Rose’s room, he pulled his hand away. Drops of blood stained the corridor carpet. The auctioneer followed after him, but Gan didn’t register his threats. Everything had happened too quickly, and it all culminated in hot flares of pain all over his body. At the very least, it kept him awake. He couldn’t pass out against a building somewhere again. Not out in the open. Not while he looked like _this_.

Gan whistled for Belle once he reached the front lawn. He heard the auctioneer say something about police, but it rolled off him like the droplets of blood on his lip. Doors slammed, and Gan knew neighbors were watching him shamble along from the comfort of their parlor windows. Unseen observers saw him retrieve his bundle of paintings, likely thought he was stealing. He didn’t care. Now, Gan’s apathy _did_ return, and it was very welcome.

The guilt didn’t catch up to him until he reached that divide between new buildings and old. _Rose_. He would write her a letter. As soon as he found more paper, he would write her a letter and apologize for showing up to her father’s auction house at all, and he would wish her the courage to pursue everything Gan was too afraid to, and he would apologize again for all the hideous things he said, and then he would seal the letter up and _never, ever send it._

Belle mewled from somewhere in the darkness. Gan didn’t search for her. She would run up to him when she felt inclined, and it was that taken-for-granted companionship that Gan appreciated. A small half smile touched his lips, just for a second. Then, he dragged his fingers through his hair and slumped against an alley wall. _What now?_

A grey plume obscured the moon, drowning the alley in dull monochromes. Every color was muted, dead—All except for the blood trickling red from Gan’s nose, and the ring on his finger that pulsed the same shade. Still, no one else occupied the space; the vacancy made it attractive. So, Gan followed that dreary path as though entranced. Belle trailed behind, a benevolent shadow at his heels. He didn’t think anything of it when she refused to walk any further. A low growl built in her throat. He let her stay where she liked, and kept moving.

At last, Gan was greeted by a dead end. His legs buckled, and he collapsed atop his quilt. Here. He would sleep here. He should have found a place like this from the beginning. He should have slept one more night at his house before _destroying it like an idiot._ He should have…

He should have heeded Belle’s warning when she entered the alley. He was not alone. The clicking of heels disrupted the muggy stillness around him. Gan didn’t move, except to lift his chin some. It was a gesture of defiance. Or an offering. If another drifter with a blade tracked him here, they chose the perfect night. He had no fight left.

“Touching that you found yourself back _here_.”

That voice crushed the breath from Gan’s lungs. He curled in on himself, and his body throbbed its protest. He thought he might be hallucinating, serving as a victim to phantoms that weren’t there. But when he wiped a trickle of blood from his brow and glanced up, he caught those _eyes_. Gan was not lucky enough to be delusional.

“My, you are not doing terribly well, are you Ganymede?” The golden man laughed, and the sound served as the final blade in Gan’s gut. He coughed. “Ah, but I suppose we always go back to the center of our fondest memories when we’re at our lowest. And what fonder memory is there than one of a first kiss?”

“You’re following me.” Gan’s voice croaked, unrecognizable, in his ears. He dragged himself onto an elbow. Slivers of glass bit deeper into his arm. “How did you… Never mind.” He was done asking questions of preternatural fiends. The answers never satisfied him anyway. He laid back down.

“Out of love, _mon ami!_ ” The beast laughed again, and Gan let his eyes flutter shut. A dark crimson ichor poured over his mind. It made him sleepy. “Oh, _cherí_ … You’ve had it worse than I imagined. And you’ve tried everything, haven’t you? Every option. Every place… Well, except for two.”

A presence occupied the space directly in front of Gan. Gan cracked open his eyes to look at the golden monster looming over him. He recognized this alley now. The scars on his neck burned. The man knelt, and Gan responded with a deep, shuddering breath. He watched the two long fingers the man held up, counting off.

“You already know the first one, don’t you? Honestly, _mon beau_ , I don’t know why you haven’t gone back _already_.” The man put a finger down, leaving only the middle one. “Why, your parents would provide well for you, don’t you think? They’re well-off, Ganymede. Very much so. I’d hardly expect you to be a burden to them.”

Gan swallowed, his brows twitching. Now, nausea crept into the mix of pain and fatigue. He turned his face into his quilt. He thought he might have mumbled a reply, but it was uncertain, incoherent. _His parents_. They would welcome him back…if he agreed to their marriage arrangements. If he abandoned his art to manage the family business. If he endured their blows, physical and emotional—So much more painful than the aches he felt now. He could go back, certainly. He could eat warm meals, and sleep in a warm bed, and he could wither away and _die_ there. The presence retreated.

“You’ll send my regards to the great George Reid, won’t you?” The clicking of heels halted, abrupt. He must have turned to watch Gan pull himself up. Golden eyes roved over his sitting form, and that sharp laughter echoed within them. “Oh… Unless, of course, you’d prefer your second option?”

Gan didn’t respond. He tasted blood in his mouth—It was bitter, metallic, and he didn’t understand how any creature could enjoy its flavor. His nose was clogged and his body was scraped and bruised. His head fogged and his heart thudded heavy in his chest. It hurt his ribs. He focused on breathing, eyes downcast.

“Ah. Best wishes, then.” The man whirled. Belle hissed as he strode past. Gan would have appreciated it, if he could feel anything past the dread poisoning his veins. He bit his lip hard enough to release a new flow of blood. At least that wound was self-imposed. And, he supposed _this_ one would be too.

“I want a lock on my door.”

The vampire paused just before he rounded the corner. His head tilted back, shoulders shaking on a silent chuckle. Gan kept his eyes on the ground, on the spatters of blood there. His blood.

“Why, Ganymede, you must speak up. I can—”

“ _I want a lock on my door_.” Gan’s final burst of energy drove those words. Dark, frenzied eyes locked on yellow ones. His chest heaved on a series of quick, shallow breaths. Gan clenched his teeth before they devolved into sobs. His fists closed tight at his sides. The ruby ring warmed his palm. A long silence followed as the two observed one another. Overhead, the sky began to weep.

The golden man flashed his silver smile. “Gather your things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I have been waiting /so long/ to finally get these two together. The whole story basically centers on their relationship, so... VERY excited for what's to come. Next chapter's a Marion POV, folks. Enjoy~


	8. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! My semester break is coming up, so I'm looking forward to getting a looot of writing done. Until then, enjoy this update and feel free to leave feedback and love for the holiday season. As always, you can also follow me on Instagram or Tumblr @drewyth.

_Poor boy. Tired boy._

Marion watched Ganymede Reid kneel on the ground before him. Once, he was the son of a marvelous businessman, and heir to famed quantities of wealth. Now, he looked a pitiful, wounded creature—Whose blood smelled _irresistible_. It made his triumph taste all the sweeter. The corners of Marion’s mouth trembled as he fought back a grin. He toyed with his bottom lip and tilted his head to watch the boy rise.

Ganymede moved slowly. He pushed himself first onto grimy knees. Inhaled. Then, he planted a hand behind him and dragged himself upright. Inhaled. His other hand joined the first, clawing at moss-covered stone. Every tendon tensed as he steadied himself against the wall. His breaths came slow, shallow, and uneven. Even so, his expression never changed. His eyes appeared dull, withdrawn, and Marion was impressed. Ganymede was far luckier than any of his victims to date; yet, right now, he looked identical to all the others. His hopelessness, his despair, his resignation… It all reminded Marion of those final delicious moments when a human realizes they’re going to die.

_I wonder if you wish_ your _fate were that simple, little trapped one._

Marion’s grin sharpened then. He couldn’t help it. Here was this great, guarded, insolent serving boy bleeding on his knees in front of him. It thrilled him, quickened his pulse. He took a few brisk steps forward. Ganymede’s eyes flickered to his face, and away just as quickly. Marion almost moved to touch his hair, to see how he would react to the false comfort, but he decided to reach for the boy’s bundle of paintings instead. Ganymede snatched them away with vigor Marion didn’t think he’d had left. Marion laughed.

“By yourself, then.” Marion looked the boy over with a gaze as languid as the rise and fall of Ganymede’s chest. The sprinkles of crimson on his skin matched the bountiful spray of his freckles. His hair fell in thick, rain-damp curls around his eyes and jaw. His upturned nose was stained pink and creased with congealed blood. His clothes were tattered, and his shoes were soaked, and his hands shook even where he gripped his portraits. Marion clicked his tongue. “I really was just trying to offer some help, seeing how _exhausted_ you are.”

“I’ve got it.” There was an edge to Ganymede’s voice that didn’t mask his fatigue. His face twisted in pain that he clearly tried to pass off as ill content. “Don’t touch me or my shit.”

“Oh! But didn’t we have an arrangement, should you decide to take refuge in my home?” Marion leaned down so his face was level with the painter boy’s. “Just as you must feed regularly, so must I. Shall I remind you what that means for you?” He brushed stray hairs away from Ganymede’s neck. Smiled. He hoped Ganymede loved his smile, and that it only made him hate him more. “It’d be impossible to do without touching you. You understand.”

Ganymede’s throat bobbed, even as he bared his teeth. “Just how often do you need to—eat?” He asked the question like it was in a foreign tongue, something he couldn’t comprehend. His eyes darkened. “Will I be the only one you…feed from? At all?”

Marion couldn’t decide whether to laugh or sigh. The sound that slipped over his tongue was breathy blend of the two. “Have you ever eaten the same food for a week straight? Longer than that? No, Ganymede, your blood isn’t _that_ exciting to me. Besides, you’d die. I feed nightly. Preferably.”

Ganymede’s eyes slid away as visible relief stole over him. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, but the muscles at his brow twitched in thought. Perhaps he wondered how Marion found him. _Why_ he did. He wouldn’t be the only one without a clear answer to the latter. Marion shrugged.

“Are you ready to go then? We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.” He whirled toward the exit, when the hissing of a beast struck his ears. He snapped his head over and his eyes locked on another yellow pair in the darkness. His lip curled before he forced his eyes shut, humming softly to himself. “Ah… Did I mention I don’t allow furred devils into my home? Such a shame. Follow me now.”

“You think I’ll leave her?” Marion opened his eyes again to watch Ganymede kneel at the creature’s side. He stroked its back with a bandaged hand. A brown gaze lingered on the animal before Ganymede narrowed it back on him. “You’re wrong. Belle’s my best friend. She goes where I go, period.” He scooped the cat under an arm, but she struggled and slipped free to mew at his feet. Ganymede frowned. “Besides, if you ever get mice, she’s a mighty hunter.”

“I do not get mice, Ganymede. I take _care_ of my place of residence.” One corner of Marion’s mouth lifted on a smirk. “Unlike you, evidently.”

He had visited Ganymede’s shed earlier in the night. Saw what a _wreck_ had become of it. It was while Marion examined the shattered window, and busted door, and flooding front lawn that he began to understand the extent of dear Ganymede’s rage. He also started to realize just how interested he was in bringing that anger to the surface. It would be therapeutic for the boy, he was sure. Marion _cared_. Why, of course he did. Besides, this was quickly becoming a project for him, a game to see how far he could push Ganymede Reid, how fast. He kept on.

“Anyway, our dear housemate has allergies.” He thought that was true, at least. “The beast can stay outside.”

“Ignore him, sweetie.” Ganymede’s voice was hushed, clearly not intended for Marion’s ears, but he caught the words anyway. What he said next was louder, and far more despondent. “Well. If we’re gonna go, let’s go.”

“I have to admit, I expected the slightest bit more of a fight from you.” Marion smiled with a hand on his hip. “Even looking like…well, _that_.”

“Whatever it takes to get you off my back. Stop you from haunting me. Ruining my life,” Ganymede grumbled. He walked ahead. “Show me where I’m going. We’re not stopping again.”

Marion watched the boy’s muscles move beneath the same vest he’d seen him wear four times over. Broad shoulders were slumped, the lines in his neck tense, and Ganymede only hunched around himself further when Marion moved to his side. He pressed his fingers to twin marks on a pale neck.

“You healed nicely. Quickly, I assume, ever since you put that ring on?”

Ganymede didn’t answer, but his brow furrowed at the ruby on his hand. Marion grinned.

“I’m flattered you kept it, honestly. I must mean more to you than you let on.”

“I tried to sell it,” Ganymede said flatly. He turned the jewel in the moonlight to watch the crimson fragments it threw across the street. “The guy refused to take it. Acted like it was cursed or—” Ganymede stopped. He leveled a suspicious look on Marion that made him laugh.

“A curse? Oh, _non_ , darling. It is a _blessing_ for you.” His teeth flashed white under that same moon. “And for me. Did you not notice how much better you felt once you slid that gem on your finger?”

“Which way are we turning?” Ganymede asked, standing ahead of him at a junction. Marion simply walked past, continuing down the westmost path. Ganymede scoffed and continued after him.

“As I was saying, I have to feed regularly. I won’t be taking your blood _every_ night, but you’ll certainly be my preferred meal, when you’re hale. And your ring will help with that.”

“Is that how you found me? The ring?” Ganymede’s shoulders shifted when he walked, and Marion thought it made him look like the cat chasing his heels. They were both such mangy things. He clicked his tongue.

“I told you! I knew your heart would bring you back to that alley where I first pressed my lips against you. Call it a romantic’s intuition.” Marion tossed his head back on a laugh. Ganymede looked less amused.

“If you won’t answer that question, will you at least tell me your name? You know mine. Don’t you learn to introduce yourself in those _etiquette_ classes you love so much?”

Marion frowned. “I never told you my name? How thoughtless of me. Oh, but those classes also taught me not to give anything away for an unfair price. _Free_ is unfair. Pull your weight by getting home first, without collapsing or making me drag you the rest of the way. Then you’ll get a name.”

Marion didn’t know if he was surprised or not by Ganymede’s lack of argumentation. The boy simply stayed quiet, matching Marion’s pace when he wasn’t pressing aimlessly ahead. But that was part of the fun with this one: Ganymede Reid was a puzzle. His actions were unpredictable. Sometimes, he would snap and argue and shout. Other times, he would remain entirely silent, almost tranquil, and Marion found it impossible to gauge his thoughts. He didn’t act enamored with Marion’s charms, which was frustrating, but now he didn’t seem entirely disinterested either. He was a new case study. A riddle. And Marion so craved that mystifying entertainment.

_Almost as badly as you crave company_.

Marion muzzled that final thought. He watched the horizon lighten a shade of navy. The streets remained still black rivers, rippling with a pale white glow. They formed a winding labyrinth that was easy to lose oneself in. But Marion was more than familiar with these parts. He knew the twists and turns intimately. He’d hated them once, but now, looking back at the scowling boy behind him, he found himself enjoying the journey; mostly because he knew Ganymede Reid, struggling under the burden of artwork and lethargy, did not enjoy it.

“When’s the last time you slept, _chéri?_ You look awful.”

“Hm.” Ganymede lumbered on without a coherent response. Exhaustion bruised his eyes purple. Marion pondered whether that was his favorite color after all. Then, he noticed the specks of blood staining Ganymede’s skin again and changed his mind.

“What’s happened to you exactly?” Marion turned onto a main street, empty except for a few motionless silhouettes. “Told some customer to eat a rag and got a glass smashed in your face?”

“You _know_ you got me fired,” Ganymede snapped. Marion’s pulse spiked at the look he shot him. He flashed a grin, and Ganymede glanced away from it. “I haven’t talked to any stupid taverngoers. No.”

“Well, that leaves me with more questions! First, _mon chér_ , what sort of damage—”

“Do you think we’re friends?” Ganymede stopped in his tracks to look at him. His back bowed under the weight of his belongings. Sweat and blood dampened his face. His eyes seemed not to reflect the moonlight, but to drink it in, consume it, and hold it in irises dark as the sky itself. “You stalked and terrorized me for over a week. You threatened my life and took my blood, and coin, and house. I’m coming with you now because I need a place to stay and I don’t know how else to get you off my ass. Plus, you want a chew toy. If anything, we’re business partners. We’re conducting a transaction here. That does _not_ make us friends.”

“Ah…” _And there’s the big blow up_. Marion watched him with big, curious eyes. He batted them once before speaking. “Do you kiss all your business partners?”

“Fucking hell.” Ganymede strode several yards ahead, and Marion’s laughter chased him.

“Oh, Ganymede? You don’t know which way you’re going. You might want to wait for me, _amour_.”

Ganymede seemed to fortify his walls, after that. Every sharp quip Marion threw his way ricocheted off the side. It was boring, but Marion had faith that the little spitfire would come around again soon. He was no Warren, after all. Until then, Marion turned his attention to the surrounding nightlife.

The sky was tinted a deep cerulean now. It was still dark, still safe, but it lacked the security of a pitch-black firmament. Crystal rivers glinted from the crevices in the street where water had turned to ice. Rodents dodged in and out of shadow while fat moths beat their wings against yellow lanterns. Funny, Marion thought, how all these things looked so much prettier in a sunny portrait.

But there, just up the road, stood the best sight yet. A towering white manse stretched toward heaven with pointed roofs and stone chimneys. Curved balconies accented most of the third-story windows, each one framed by a marble railing. Great, leafy hedges lined the property; they appeared black now, as most things did, but Marion wagered they glowed emerald by daylight. His heels clicked a little song against the stone walkway and he hummed along to the tune. This was his home. Sometimes, his cage. Even so, he had to admit its beauty. The palatial structure was a handsome one, and he doubted any picture could do it justice. Perhaps he’d ask Ganymede to test that hypothesis for him sometime. He hurried ahead to unlatch the front gate.

“Ganymede Reid,” Marion’s voice thundered with theatrical gusto. Ganymede cringed at the sudden sound, apparently ripped from some silent stream of thought. Marion replied with a sweeping bow. “I welcome you to the humble estate of Marion Gavotte.”

He perked up onto his toes again and threw the gate open. Tiny flowers lined the snaking path within, painted pale by moonlight. He smiled at some of the saplings pushing through the frost-hardened earth. They were resilient buggers, and he had to admire their resolve. Almost.

“Come, come, Ganymede! Feel free to trample a few seedlings on your way. They’ll just freeze if the rain doesn’t drown them first.” He laughed as he ushered Ganymede inside. The boy shuffled along with far less enthusiasm, eyes darting warily over every brick and branch. Marion shut the gate behind them. _Caught_. He smiled to watch Ganymede tread so lightly over his property. Of all the pests in his garden, Marion thought, this one was his favorite yet.

Marion took his time approaching the front door where Ganymede waited. Those brown eyes wouldn’t meet his; instead, they fixed somewhere in the distance while Ganymede retreated into himself. Marion touched his shoulder when he passed, glad to see the immediate tensing of his muscles. He chuckled, withdrew his key, and let them into the estate.

A great foyer greeted them, swathed in the glow of a chandelier he’d forgotten to extinguish. To his left and right, red curtains were bound shut—Permanently—with golden ribbons. Floral carpeting danced underfoot in the flamelight. Marion sat on a plush bench to remove his boots. He glanced over his shoulder at his guest, analyzing his expression. Ganymede’s face was hard, his jaw set. He didn’t look impressed with the opulent display. Disappointing.

“Would you care for a grand tour?” Marion stood. A flicker of movement caught his eye. That damned cat. He stuck out a leg to shoo the creature back into the night. It resisted his attempt, and Ganymede stepped between them with a grimace.

“Just show me where my room is, and I’ll be fine.”

Marion poked out his bottom lip and looked Ganymede over. The boy swayed on his feet momentarily, then wiped his eyes and straightened up. He was tired, worn down, and he was even having a hard time concealing those facts. He needed sleep. Marion had something better in mind.

“Right this way, Ganymede. You deserve a long, full, strenuous tour. Hurry along now. Ah, but remove your shoes. Warren will have an aneurysm.” He took off toward the staircase, pausing on the bottom step when Ganymede didn’t follow. He gestured urgently with an arm. “Keep up, keep up! The faster we finish, the faster you drift off to sleep on a delightful wool mattress.”

Ganymede watched him with shaded eyes. Little muscles twitched and tightened in his jaw. He seemed to turn over the offer in his head and resist it. Then, his shoulders slumped. He adjusted the bundle in his arms and shook his head minutely toward the stairs. Marion took that as a ‘lead the way,’ so he did.

Marion wove the two in and out of living chambers that boasted lacquered woods and bronze accents. Above, the ceiling gave the illusion of an open, cloud-filled sky. Some of the paint was chipping, though, and Marion wondered when he could convince his new painter friend to touch it up for him. Perhaps he could get rid of the clouds entirely and light the ceiling with a faux sun’s radiance. He needed a change in scenery.

“Bear with me now. I know the Rococo style is a bit dated at this point, but it will always be a token of my time spent in my home country!” Marion circled the room, dragging a finger over every work of furniture and décor. Ganymede shifted the weight he was holding. “Oh, yes. This way to one of our _many_ dining spaces.”

The tour continued. Marion led a grumbling Ganymede through multiple dinettes, which served more aesthetic purposes than practical ones. Then, they visited what Marion liked to call his green room, where he lounged after a long night out at the theater.

“I’m not an actor, _yet,_ Ganymede,” he explained. “But seeing the performers working so hard always tires me out. Sometimes, I even bring a few back here to unwind with me… Of course, _their_ rest is eternal in this place.”

Marion laughed at the sour look on Ganymede’s face. He continued into art studios and studies, a modest ballroom and gardens, more chambers than he remembered having. He traveled upstairs, ‘forgot’ to introduce Ganymede to a vital parlor downstairs, and descended once more. The whole trip, the unnecessary back and forth, only energized him. He rattled off brief histories of each room. Every antique and portrait and cushion had a story. If they didn’t, he improvised. Finally, when he’d all but run out of senseless information to spew, Marion led his drowsy guest to a familiar door painted with golden scrollwork. One of his favorites. He threw it open with a flourish.

“Here’s where you’ll be staying.”

A cream-colored rug adorned with pink roses and golden vines lay at their feet. Marion stepped over the embroidery for a better view. He’d seen this place a million times before, yet his admiration never faded. His eyes traveled to the canopied bed nestled into a corner of tall, wooden shelves. He rarely slept there; this room had _windows_ , and all it took was one failed curtain rod to… He shook the thought away. It was a charming bit of interior design anyway.

Less charming was the autographed sunset hanging crooked on his wall. Marion scoffed and stepped to the heart of the room, where his sights locked on something else instead. Something far more enchanting. He resisted the urge to sit at his grand ivory piano, even when candlelight flirted with the keys and made them shimmer with temptation.

“Oh, my joy…” Marion sighed, caressing the cover with a pinky. He hadn’t had time to play tonight, but that would change soon. Ganymede cleared his throat from behind.

“You want me to give you some time alone together?” Ganymede asked, rolling his eyes. They drifted back to the bed then. Marion smirked.

“Now, Ganymede, who would I be to kick you out of your own bedroom?” Marion laughed, and a few quick steps brought him around to Ganymede’s side. He touched Ganymede’s shoulders, but the boy jerked away. Marion shrugged. “This room does come with a lock, as requested. Warren will provide you with a key whenever he finds the time. He’s a very busy man, as you’ll come to notice. Ah, what else…?”

Marion rested a hand on his hip, turning full circle while he thought. “Ah. I practice piano nightly, which I’m sure you’ll grow accustomed to. It’s a pleasant sound, no worries.” He stepped to the window next. “We are on the third floor now so, if you truly insist on letting your precious kitty waltz out of it, I won’t stop you. Just be certain to clean up the mess that follows.” Marion’s shoulders shook on a note of cruel laughter.

“Speaking of pets, what else will my new human need?” Marion hummed softly, as though speaking only to himself. He took note of the angry flash in Ganymede’s eyes. Beautiful. “Mmm, we’ll stock up on human food for you. Warren always loved to cook, as I hear him tell it.” That was a lie. Warren never told him anything. “Let’s see, what more…? Do you have any questions, Ganymede? Concerns, doubts, inhibitions, hopes and dreams?”

Ganymede watched him with a blank expression. It seemed he was still turning every sentence over in his mind, processing each one separately. Finally, one stuck.

“Wait. You’re telling me you’re going to come in and out of my room to play that piano? No thanks.” Ganymede slumped in the doorway, and Marion watched part of his quilt droop to the floor. “You want to play it? Fine. But I want to relocate. First floor. Otherwise, play a different piano. Or move it. I could help with that. But I guess I doubt you need it, being what you are.”

Marion’s brow quirked. Then, shrugging, he produced a key from his pocket. “For tonight, you may use my key. I’ll leave a note for Warren to bring yours tomorrow.”

Marion stepped close to hand over the key. His eyes caught on Ganymede’s bundle of portraits, and he followed the edge of the quilt down to where it hung on the floor. Then, he planted his heel on the corner of that blanket and ground his foot down, hard. Ganymede shouted, stumbling forward. He doubled over to catch the paintings before they spilled from his arms. Marion gazed down at him, another chime of laughter kissing the air.

“You’ve been demanding, Ganymede. It was endearing. _Was_. But you’re going to learn that, in this place, you make no rules. You simply follow the ones already in place. I thought you would be used to that, living on the streets as you did.” Marion lifted his foot and Ganymede staggered back. His eyes never left Marion’s, and fire sparked in them once more. Marion grinned. “Nothing you say holds any weight. You do what you must to survive. Same applies here.”

“Asshole,” Ganymede hissed and snatched his quilt back into his arms.

Satisfied, Marion turned his back on him, examining the portraits that ornamented his walls. It was still the sunset that captured his attention most vividly. He breathed a laugh, then swept a hand out over his piano. “I believe I’ll play a song tonight. Any requests, Ganymede?”

Just as quickly as Ganymede’s flame ignited, it fizzled out. His eyes shone empty now. “You can play whatever you want. I’ll sleep somewhere else. Do what I have to do to survive, like you said.”

With that, Ganymede departed. Marion listened to him descend the stairwell; his were the clumsy footfalls of a man half-conscious. Perhaps Marion ran the boy _too_ ragged. These mortals. He was always forgetting just how weak their limits were. He sighed and let Ganymede go. He’d have plenty of time with him tomorrow. And the next night. And the one after that. Ganymede Reid was caged now, and so Marion could decide what to do with him whenever he pleased. _Something to consider_ , he mused, _to the sound of music_.

Marion settled at his leather-padded bench. A sweet string of song caressed his ears. Something he’d written and rehearsed numerous times—Without hitting a single off key. The fluidity of the piece brought to mind portraits of flowing rivers and cascading falls. Marion could drown in the depths of those painted blues the same as he could vanish under the sea of his song. He looked to the sunset hanging nearby: Not one brushstroke out of place. He focused back on the strokes of his own fingers then. If this was to be the painter boy’s first time hearing him play, he had to be impressive, no?

Marion hummed along to the perfected tune. The light scraping of footsteps joined in on the chorus, during which Marion began to sing softly. Muscle memory took over, his fingers having touched these same keys, in this same pattern, a hundred times over. He had no need for his composition book, not with this one. So, anticipating his company, Marion smirked at the mirror.

“Ganyme—” The reflection at the threshold caught Marion off guard. He repeated the same line of music, and again, his hands stuck on loop. “Warren.” He finished off the song with a quick, discordant jingle, then moved to fix his hair. “You’re home rather early.”

Marion tried to train his voice to indifference. Warren did it better.

“Your human is asleep on the couch.”

“Oh, my sweet pet…” Marion clicked his tongue before returning to his instrument. He tapped out the beginning of a different, livelier tune. “He’s had a long day, Warren. Can’t you sympathize?”

“A cat ran inside when I opened the door.” Warren’s expression didn’t change. Everything about him was pale, cold, like a sweeping field of virgin snow. _Everything…except for those damned gory eyes._ They pierced through him now. “Remove it, Marion, before I have to.”

Marion frowned and dropped his elbows onto the keys. A small smile broke through when Warren winced at the sound. “All you ever do is complain.”

Warren turned to leave.

“Wait now, Warren! Before you go…” Marion turned to face him fully. He offered out a palm. “I need your key.”

“No.”

“No?” Irritation settled warm in Marion’s chest. He scoffed. “Our new housemate is borrowing mine. It wouldn’t do for me to be letting him in and out of the house in the middle of the day. You understand. Besides, you have an extra. My old one. I’d like it returned to me, thank you.”

“You can ask the human to let you in. I’m sure he won’t lose his key, as you have. Twice.”

When Warren turned to go again, Marion didn’t stop him. The red-eyed parasite wouldn’t give him a key to the house, but he still had the keys beneath his fingers. He struck them harder than before and belted out a satirical hymn. Warren never much had a sense of humor; these were his least favorite songs. _Well good_ , Marion thought, and when a door shut down the hall, he sang louder. Already, the sullen, explosive, insufferable Ganymede Reid was becoming his favorite housemate.

Then again, he thought, the bar was _extremely_ low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Ganymede grapples with his sudden domestic situation with a vampire. Tons of fun. Maybe not for him, though.


	9. Acquiescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, all! I'm thrilled to report that my partner and I have finally created an entire outline for this fic so we know exactly where it's heading now. There will be 58 chapters total, and each chapter now has a working title. The structure this has given me is so soothing, and I'm super excited keep on writing! Anyway, enjoy the update (which should really just be called "Banter") and please feel free to leave feedback and spread holiday cheer. :)

Gan woke suddenly. His shirt clung to his skin and he couldn’t tell how much of the dampness was sweat, how much was blood. He hissed a breath through his teeth as he pulled himself up. His muscles ached, but he was used to that. His hair stuck to his scalp in matted clumps, but he was used to that, too. What he wasn’t used to, was his environment. Sweeping floral designs and gleaming metallic décor swam in his sights. He blinked a few times and focused on the fabric beneath him. A quilted burgundy design, sprinkled with little beige flowers, cradled him alongside numerous throw pillows. He’d knocked a few off the sofa in his sleep.

Sleep.

He had no idea how long he’d slept. He searched for a window, a clock, some indicator of time. The windows were covered, though, and the lone clock in the room had a busted pendulum and hands that only ticked in place. Gan exhaled on a huff. Useless vampire. He had a million trivial antiques, but nothing that served any practical purpose. Useless… _vampire_.

Gan winced as the events of the previous night unraveled in his mind. He’d dragged himself from Bram’s house, to Rose’s, to an abandoned alley that he _should have recognized_. He’d gotten himself cornered, succumbed to the whims of a devil with golden eyes. But it was just because he was tired. He hadn’t slept, and he was without coin, without options. His agreement was an act of self-preservation. He was desperate. Everything _hurt_.

He forced his attention to his arms. Needles of scarlet discomfort stitched their way into his flesh. Tiny slivers of glass glinted inside some of the wounds and Gan grit his teeth as he set to picking them out. He located one of the shards, dug his thumbnail underneath, and cringed at the sharp prick of pain. His breath escaped him in a rush when he studied the fragile splinter on the edge of his finger. Such a small thing, yet it produced such a great piercing ache. He swallowed thickly and flicked the glass onto a nearby end table. He couldn’t do this with every piece. But, heat. Heat would draw the shards out.

It was then Gan noticed just how _warm_ he was. Despite winter’s cruel approach, this house captured heat and bundled it around him like a quilt, a sturdier cover than the one he wore now. And the place had other luxuries to explore, along with, Gan realized, _silence_.

He sat forward on the sofa, listening to the stillness that surrounded him. From the sound of it, no one else had yet woken. _Vampires sleep by day_. That was how the legends went. Gan snorted to himself. The legends _also_ told of wise creatures who could not cross a threshold without invitation. These beings were easily repelled by crucifixes and pungent herbs. They slept in coffins and turned into bats and Gan thought it all moronic. Storytellers didn’t know vampires. _He_ knew vampires. In fact, he knew two by name.

“Marion.” He grumbled the syllables past a sleep-thick tongue. It was strange, referring to him as anything besides _the golden man_. Giving him a name offered him some humanity which, of course, he had none of. Unless he used to be human? Gan shook his head. He could seek answers later. Now, he wanted to take advantage of one of the only good things to come of his dismal situation.

He only vaguely remembered where the bathroom was. During the tour, he had been paying more attention to the healthy blush of Marion’s cheeks. He wondered if that meant he’d fed recently. He’d also been thinking about his ring, what magics possessed it. He glanced at the ruby now, still radiating a light that seemed entirely self-contained. It would _keep him hale_. He closed a hand over it and moved on without considering where his feet fell.

He wandered into the main entry hall. With all the windows covered, and the overhead chandelier extinguished, it was dark. Still impossible to tell what time it was. But there, resting beside a slim blue vase, a piece of paper caught Gan’s attention. He paused. If he was going to be living here, well, he had a right to know more about his housemates. He’d take any clue he was granted.

A sweeping series of loops and curls stared back at Gan from the page. He furrowed his brow. It took him a moment to decipher the letters where they bled together in a jumbled script. _Warren, I am also going out_ , he read. _With love, Marion._

Warren. The other name he knew. But a name was all he had. Now though, as he pushed the topmost letter to the side and revealed the parchment below it, he also had a sense of penmanship: _Out again. Warren._ That was enough for him, Gan decided. The longer he could go without _meeting_ another bloodsucker, the better. He shrugged away from the table and continued through the soundless place. His footsteps were his only company, but that was another thing he was accustomed to. The creaking of floorboards followed him past countless open doors. When he peeked inside, he saw the same rich furnishings that characterized the rest of the manor, but no residents. It was familiar. People liked big houses; what they didn’t realize was that any house seemed big if it was empty enough. Gan rested a hand on the stair railing and sighed. The bathroom. Right.

He found one on the second floor, decorated with withering pink carnations and angels carved from soap. Some pungent, artificial sweetness clogged his nose. He wiped at it and dried blood flaked away. His teeth clenched against the dull ache that spread through his sinuses. _He fucking hit me_. Then again, Gan had no business invading Rose’s home without welcome. Maybe he should write her blasted father a letter too. Gan nodded to himself and pushed the door shut behind him.

When Gan sighed again, he drew the sound out, relishing it. He wished Belle were beside him. He could always talk to her, put his thoughts to words so they didn’t gnaw so heavily at his mind. Now, he was the only one around to listen to himself. He braced both arms against the sink and looked in the mirror. His heart leapt, startled by his condition. His hair fell into his face in damp ringlets, and his freckles were scarcely visible beneath caked blood and ugly yellow bruises. He touched one, hissed at its tenderness, but its color was light. It was healing. Swiftly. He glanced again at his ring.

“The hell are you thinking?” he muttered to his reflection. Brown eyes glared back at him, defensive. He kneaded at one with the heel of his hand. “Just…needed a place to sleep.”

 _So why am I_ staying?

“Ugh.” He twisted on the faucet to drown out his words. They annoyed him, almost as much as the golden man’s—Er, Marion’s did. He stuck a hand under the water, and immediately jerked back when it scorched his skin. “ _Shit._ Ow.”

He adjusted the temperature, gingerly batting at the stream with his opposite hand. That was something he’d have to readapt to: Water that actually ran hot when you wanted it to. He stuck his arm in, shivering as steam rose from his skin. The flush of pleasant heat offset the sting of his wounds. His other arm joined in and he watched those tiny channels of water as he might watch rainfall. The sight was almost as satisfying as the sensation. He closed his eyes and melted into it.

Finally, when his fingers began to shrivel, and most of the glass had tumbled into the ceramic basin, Gan splashed his face, dampened his hair. He rubbed away any blood and struggled to tame his curls back. The little restroom looked so pristine, he felt guilty for using it. At the same time, the tidiness made him realize, he was very likely the _only_ one using it. Did vampires even need…

Never mind. He didn’t care to know.

He shrugged the door open and drifted through, aimless. He wandered the halls, dragging his palm over the wall. Most of the plants, he noticed, were artificial. The ones that weren’t? Dead. In one sitting room, he glimpsed a pot filled with nothing but soil. When he came close, he noticed a pair of seeds covered by a shallow layer of dirt. Apple seeds, by the look of them. Gan pushed them both down deeper into the soil and covered them properly. His brow furrowed again at the darkened room. His hand fisted into a nearby curtain, tugging it free of its bind. The sudden stream of sunlight blinded him, and he threw up a hand to shield himself. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he was sure the seeds looked just the slightest bit happier. He left, closing the door behind him.

The next item he stumbled upon was of even greater interest. A coin purse sat unattended at the head of the stairs. He must have missed it before. Gan looked around, then took the pouch into his hands. It jingled musically, better than any piano that stupid vampire could play. And, Gan realized with growing conviction, he was _owed_ this coin. It was that man— _Marion’s_ fault his pockets were empty in the first place. Gan chewed the inside of his cheek. After shifting the purse from hand to hand, he tucked it into the waistband of his pants.

He needed food. And if Marion truly wanted to keep him around as a personal painter, he’d need supplies, too. It only made sense that Marion would pay for these things, after being so adamant about Gan coming home with him. And if he got upset, well, tough shit. And Gan could always add on to his letter.

Gan spent his—rather late—afternoon in the merchant’s square. It was an uncomfortable space to return to, given his last experience with it. He’d intended to buy a fruit basket first, but the kindly woman who’d traded with him before was not in her usual spot, so Gan frowned and delved deeper into the square. He deliberately jingled his coin purse when he walked past the jeweler’s stand and itched his temple with a jeweled middle finger. The bastard pretended not to notice and went on shining some gemstone. Gan cursed under his breath and kept walking.

Finally, he secured a small stack of canvases, an easel, and a fresh set of paints. He contemplated buying a cheap satchel bag to tuck everything into, then he took one look at the purse on his hip and decided, no. He’d get a nice, sturdy one crafted from fine leather.

 _Thanks Marion,_ Gan thought spitefully as he slipped his new purchase over his shoulder, _I sure owe you one._ The coin pouch felt significantly lighter after that, and so did Gan’s mood. Until he entered the gate leading to Marion’s front door and realized he’d forgotten food altogether. His stomach grumbled its annoyance and he grumbled right back. Whatever. The vampire would have to feed him sooner or later, if he wanted a meal in turn. Gan pressed a hand to his neck, unlocked the door with his new key, and pressed inside.

He was hardly two steps into the house when a grating voice caught him.

“ _Look_ what Warren just found in his study.” Marion Gavotte stood at the base of the stairs and thrust a squirming Belle out before him. The cat hissed, and Marion’s expression curdled when he hissed back. Alarm brought Gan three strides closer. Annoyance stopped him again. He scowled at the way Marion jostled her around.

“Can you fucking stop shaking her around like—” Gan was interrupted by a yelp. Belle must have scratched Marion because he dropped her, and she bolted outside. Gan watched her go, teeth clenched.

“Well, that takes care of that, then.” Marion made a show of dusting off his hands and examining the thin slice marks on his arm. Gan wished she’d gotten him deeper; he didn’t look hurt enough. He certainly wasn’t in enough pain to stop him from talking, because he went on. “Unfortunately, that’s not the only thing we found lounging in a room where it doesn’t belong.” Marion flicked some hair behind his shoulder and crossed his arms, frowning. “Is the chamber I so generously provided you with not to your liking? It’s my favorite room in the house. I thought you’d be more grateful but, my, you didn’t even sleep there.”

Gan watched him a minute, irritation brewing. Familiar gears clicked away, hardening his expression. At last, he shifted the bag on his shoulder and pushed past him on the stairs. “I wanted my own space. Just mine. Not somewhere you’ll be. I don’t want to listen to your shitty piano, and I don’t want you bothering me when you don’t need a—meal.”

At first, it seemed as though Marion was going to let him go. There was silence, the clicking of the front door, and more silence. But when Gan reached the first landing, that same voice called out, “You think my piano playing is shitty?”

Gan paused, staring straight ahead. He almost looked over his shoulder, could _feel_ golden eyes burning his back, but he scoffed and kept walking. His stomach growled again, apparently disapproving of his choice.

“Have you eaten enough? As I said, Warren used to cook once upon a time. It’ll be like pulling fangs trying to get him to do it for _you_ , though. We may need to turn ourselves a new little maid.” Gan’s jaw tightened when footsteps took after him. “Would you like that, Ganymede? A pretty girl to cook and clean for you? Perhaps provide…other favors?”

Gan turned, and nearly fell backwards when he found curious yellow eyes just inches from his own. How had he caught up to him so—Gan rolled his eyes and fell back a step. _Vampires_. “I don’t need anyone to cook for me and I don’t need you to ruin someone else’s life. There’s nothing I can’t do for myself.” He continued his ascent, grumbling until his voice rose again on, “Other favors… Other favors? I’m _not_ interested, jackass.”

“Is that why your parents abandoned you?”

Gan stumbled. He narrowed his eyes on the wall and stood still. Marion followed, and Gan wished more than anything that he were Belle instead. Belle wouldn’t dig at him like this.

“Poor taste in music and, in their eyes, romantic partners, hm?” Marion went on, chuckling. “Well, the first reason is understandable, anyway. When did you first discover your preferences, dear? Music or men, I’m eager to hear either story.”

Gan’s breath hissed out between his teeth. He closed his eyes a second, trapping himself in darkness with the foul clunking of gears. He willed his feet to move instead of his fist; he clamped the latter over his shoulder strap instead. He had a place to stay. His host was an abnormally strong fairytale creature. He needed to keep his mouth shut and keep walking, just like he should have done that first night at the tavern.

“Oh, Ganymede! I’m hungry.”

Gan made a strangled sound of exasperation. He should have picked up a crucifix while he was out. “Yeah? Me too. Hold up on your end, and I’ll hold up on mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, not all of us are nocturnal. I’ll be in the room you wanted _so badly_ for me to stay in.” Gan paused again, just before the third floor. He could feel Marion behind him and didn’t turn to address him. He spoke slowly. “Tell you what. Bring me food, and I’ll humor you with one stupid question. Clearly you’re interested.”

“Ah… Quid pro quo.” Gan almost heard Marion’s smile. He wanted it gone. So, Gan turned and shoved the coin purse at the other man’s chest.

“Might need that.”

Marion raised his brows, then surprise melted into recognition and he laughed. Gan cringed at the sound. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, nor one he wanted. He wanted to irk the man as much as he’d irked him. The exchange did, however, lead to Marion’s retreat. For that, Gan was grateful. Marion sang boisterously on his way down the stairs but, once the front door opened and shut, Gan had peace. Soon, he’d have a meal too.

In the meantime, he found his way back to the piano room. ‘His’ room. The nauseating stench of perfume and excessive ornamentation reminded him too much of another home he once inhabited. He shivered as though gripped by the remnants of a nightmare. He’d much preferred his hovel.

Gan shrugged his bag onto a frilly lounge chair. He would have thrown the curtains open, welcomed in the evening sun, but the room held no windows, and the autumn gloom had already turned the sky dark and grey. Instead, Gan’s attention went to the painted sun mounted crooked on the wall. He moved closer to the bed and stood on his toes to straighten it. Internally, he cursed Marion Gavotte, his height, the damn heeled boots he wore for no reason. It was one of an endless supply of curses.

He went downstairs after that, to retrieve the rest of his belongings. Only five of his paintings had survived the last few nights. Five paintings, and the letters that were too numerous to count. He figured he’d be adding another to the pile once he met this Warren person. The first thing he would apologize for would be letting Belle back in and carrying her to his room. He still did it, though. Once inside, he shut the door and allowed Belle to explore. Her fur stood on edge the entire time. Gan sighed.

“I know. I don’t like it here either.”

He peeled off his vest and tossed it on the corner of the bed. He bet the mattress was soft, but he also bet that, if he laid down now, he wouldn’t rise again until after midnight. True vampire hours. He shook his head and set to assembling his new easel.

Gan had only managed four color swatches before a knock sounded at the door. He didn’t answer, but it flew open anyway. Gan kept dabbing samples of his new paint on the back of a canvas.

“Freckles! Oh, Freckles!” Marion swept into the room with unnecessary fervor. In one hand, he held a box of something that smelled so strongly, Gan’s headache from the room’s perfume was already starting to subside. His mouth watered instead. He turned to watch Marion grin. “Ganymede, it’s meal time. For both of us.”

Marion popped open the box and Gan eyed its contents warily. Suspicion quickly turned to hunger when he spotted the duck, crisp and plump and dressed in an assortment of spices. Roasted vegetables swam in butter and glaze, and a fragrant steam rose from diced potatoes. In the corner, there was a golden-brown pastry drizzled with chocolate, oozing from the middle with a dark red sauce. Gan blinked. _Strawberries_. He scolded himself and bit a tongue slick with saliva.

“Thanks,” Gan murmured. He took the box without looking at the man who offered it to him and sat on the edge of the bed. “Let me eat first. I’ll probably need the strength.”

The food must have tasted good. It _must_ have. Gan inhaled it too swiftly to be certain, though. Rich flavors erupted on his tongue, and he had to swallow each bite several times to keep himself from drooling. He doubted he breathed the entire time; then again, most people could hold their breath for about two minutes. Gan figured he must have finished his meal in about that time. He hiccuped when he was done and raised his head to see Marion beside him, looking at him. No, _gazing_ at him. He swallowed one more time and frowned.

“What’s your problem?”

Those golden eyes blinked, and Marion smiled. Gan thought it appeared almost sheepish. “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten like that.” He gestured to the empty box and Gan instinctively brought it in closer to his own body. “Oh, calm down. It’s _gone_ , and I couldn’t take it from you even if it weren’t. My diet consists of a single red dish.” The smile shifted into something else, but Gan couldn’t decipher it. Longing, maybe. Marion extended an arm before he could think too hard on it. “Ah! Speaking of which.”

Gan’s hand returned to his neck. He took a deep breath, then moved to unbutton his shirt. He didn’t want any more blood on it. The stains already made him look like a butcher as it was. He let the fabric slip off broad shoulders and met Marion’s eye. “If you put me out of commission for the next three days again, I’m going to make my best effort not to wake up.”

“You do everything so quickly, don’t you?” His smile dripped with disappointment now. “ _I_ prefer to revel in life’s many pleasures. Draw them out. Savor them. Ah, but humans live quick and fragile lives. I understand the impatience.”

“Uh huh.” Gan pushed the box away and stared, his face impassive. “You know, you talk a lot to get to your main point. It’s obnoxious.”

Marion shrugged, and his gaze drifted lower, until Gan realized he was studying his neck. He resisted the urge to swallow again. “I believe you promised me a question if I fed you.” His eyes moved casually back to Gan’s own, and even those beamed. “Call me old-fashioned, Ganymede, but I don’t think one modest question is enough to get to know a person. But, since you’re so intent on getting something back from me every time you offer even an inch, I’ll answer a question of yours for each one I ask, no?”

Gan’s frown deepened. What was he saying? He wanted to play a question game? Ask Gan things, and Gan shoots queries back in turn? He shrugged his shirt back into place, even as it remained unfastened. Marion cocked his head, sounding curious. “Shall I start then, or shall you?”

“You get _one_ question because you wouldn’t shut up earlier. I’m not going to sit here and go back and forth with you.” Gan paused. Now would be a perfect opportunity to ask about vampires. To discover their habits and strengths and, perhaps, their weaknesses. He shrugged. “Well. Maybe I have one. Why do you smile all the time? It’s creepy.”

Marion smiled at that. _Ironic_. “Well, Ganymede Reid, _generally_ when people find something humorous, or pleasant, or astonishing, or—Well, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” A wry twist of his lips that was no longer a smile. “Ah… I really should use my pretty mouth to smile more and talk less! That’s what the men always liked to tell me. Nowadays, of course, I tell _them_ to smile while their lives drain from their throats.”

Gan grimaced, looked away. He’d half hoped talking to this man would make him seem like less of a beast, more of an obnoxious roommate. Sometimes, it almost worked. Then, he said things like _that_. Marion laughed a raw, insincere sound and continued.

“To the point then. Smiling is an involuntary reaction to pleasurable stimuli. You might try it sometime.” He paused, and Gan thought he was done. The brief silence must have driven him to keep going, though. “I think the only time I saw even a trace of a smile on your lips was, well…” Marion tugged at his own collar, indicating twin puncture scars on his neck. Gan’s face flared as he unconsciously touched his own. Marion smirked. “Oh, but you don’t want to hear that, do you? How embarrassing.”

“I didn’t… _smile_ when you bit me, pisspot,” Gan seethed. “I smile all the time when I’m not around _you_. All depends on my company.”

“Somehow I doubt that. But, ah, my turn.” Marion studied a chipped nail before flaking at it with his teeth, and Gan willed the simmering in his blood to subside. “So, did your parents catch you fucking a man, Ganymede, or did they just draw conclusions based on your…overall manner of being?”

His blood boiled again just as fast. His head snapped up, eyes dark with warning. “Do you think you’re being funny?” Gan’s fist tensed at his side. “Neither. Drink or leave.”

“Did I sound like I was joking?” Marion asked, innocent. Gan’s fingers twitched again. The vampire was, without doubt, stronger than him, but he could at least go down swinging if he chose. Marion didn’t give him the chance. “Well, you did answer, anyway. Now, come here. You’ve had your fix. I’ll take mine.” He snapped his fingers as one might with a dog and sat back, motioning to his lap. “Here, boy. We’ve only got all night.”

Gan’s teeth bared, which likely didn’t help with the dog imagery. He was a pet here. Something to be groomed and fed and toyed with. He had half a mind to bite the long fingers extended toward him. He slid closer instead and tugged his shirt away from his collar. He averted his eyes, jaw set. “Make it fast.”

“Did you know,” Marion began in a voice that was deceptively soft, “there is not a more intimate act than a vampire drinking from the neck of his victim.” His hand curled into Gan’s hair and Gan jerked back, arm raised in defense. Marion’s eyes lit up with amusement, but he didn’t try again. “It might not mean anything to you…but pulling a living—or undead—creature to your chest, their heart throbbing in time with your own… Blood flowing over your tongue, warm in your throat, hot in your veins, flushed red with excitement, locked in a gory embrace…”

Gan snorted, his neck stiff from waiting. _Intimate_. His heart skipped a beat when he met Marion’s eye, and he chalked that up to annoyance. He settled back again. “You’re quite a whore then, aren’t you.”

Marion laughed, then his eyes sharpened on Gan’s, and Gan retreated just a bit more. “Hardly at all, compared to the old days! Ah… I could bite your wrist, of course.” Two fingers pressed to the inside of Gan’s wrist, as though to prove the simplicity of it. Gan didn’t recoil that time, merely glaring as Marion shrugged.

“I could even drain the blood into a glass. Although…” Marion’s nose crinkled. “Have you ever eaten cold soup? Oh, of course you have. But you’d prefer it hot, wouldn’t you? Fresh. Rich with all its alluring scents and flavors.” Marion splayed his fingers over Gan’s chest, and Gan’s lip curled. He knew the man would feel his heart pounding now, and his head throbbed in turn. He made another fist to join the first. Marion feigned a gasp. “Oh? Am I making you that angry? Well, enough of the foreplay then.”

Marion’s wink was what made Gan bat his hand away. The fingers relocated to Gan’s neck. “Should I?” Marion moved in, his voice dropping to a whisper. Now, his eyes were trained on the old marks he’d left in the alley. Gan breathed slowly, listening to those gears of his. He wished they would at least drown out the vampire’s monologue. “I feel so rude, Ganymede… I’m going to be doing this so often now, and we’ve barely gotten to know one another.”

“Fine.” Gan shoved Marion’s hand away again and snatched his shirt back into place. He wrestled his sleeve up and thrust his arm forward. “I don’t want to be intimate with you, if that’s what you call intimacy. So, drink what you have to and get the hell out.”

“Was I talking too much again?” Marion sat back. His voice was flat, the line of his mouth flatter. “I didn’t mean to ruin the mood.” His brow arched when he took Gan’s wrist. He scoffed. “Here I was, excited for a five-star meal, and you’ve tossed me table scraps. How degrading.”

“Your fault.” Gan met those golden eyes without apprehension. They were beautiful, but their owner was repulsive. It made him less intimidating than intolerable. Gan twitched his wrist again. “This is what you want. Take it before I change my mind.”

“I’ll fill you up with holes, then.” Marion’s troubled expression dissolved into a grin. He draped a hand over his heart, even as he jerked Gan closer. “Soon, no matter where you look, you’ll see my mark on you. _Bon apetit._ ”

Gan considered only letting Marion bite his upper arms, going forward. He could hide the marks that way, and it wasn’t as though he wasn’t used to hiding scars as it was. Before he could finish that line of thought, soft lips grazed the flutter of his pulse. Then, fangs sank deep into the tender flesh of his forearm. The initial shock was painful, but Gan knew what would follow. He bit his own tongue, hard, as a wave of liquid pleasure moved through him. He wanted to distract himself with the ache, draw his attention away from the scarlet rush rousing his senses.

A fluid veil of ecstasy loosened his grip, even as something else tightened its hold on him. He felt his mind slipping and, in some vague distance, someone coughed a wet, sputtering cough. His heart slammed, pounded into another. He wanted to be closer to that music. He tried to move toward it, his fingers curling into too-soft fabric, but he lost his drive beneath a flush of heat. His lips parted on a weak sound and his head lulled back, trying to make sense of the cloud blurring his vision. Then, something wrenched away from him and he was left drifting, empty, without an anchor. For a long time, all he heard was the fumbling of his heart, and the shallow breaths mingling with his own. It happened…so suddenly. Whatever it was.

A breathy laugh jarred him from his reverie. “Sit for a minute, Ganymede. I didn’t take any more than doctors normally do.” Gan lazily moved his arm, but his shirt was snagged. Long fingers clung to his sleeve, he realized, and that faraway voice continued. “I think, anyway.”

“Mm…” Gan watched as two red dots swam into focus. His wrist. His wrist was bleeding and covered in a fine red spray where the vampire had coughed some up. Gan sucked down a breath before trying to talk. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth. “I feel fine.”

He was ashamed by how fine he felt, truthfully. The sudden high felt familiar, and now, so did the low. A white powder came to mind, and Gan told himself it was snow, he was just thinking of snow because it was getting cold outside. Besides, he’d given all that up; one couldn’t very well afford opiates if they couldn’t afford rent. Gan closed his eyes and tugged his shirt the rest of the way off. He climbed beneath the blankets and burrowed. All these thoughts of— _snow,_ they froze him.

“Get that light.” He wasn’t tired but, if he pretended to sleep, perhaps the vampire would leave him be.

Marion didn’t obey right away, though. _A shock._ Gan glanced over to see him move onto the floor, swaying slightly. Maybe _he_ was the one who’d needed to ‘sit for a minute.’ Finally, Marion sprawled on his back on the carpet and stared at the ceiling. Gan shook his head and buried his face beneath his pillow.

“You’re so mean to me. All I’ve wanted is to be your friend.” Marion spoke without any conviction, as though his words were lines from a script. “Would you like to hear me play now? I know some lullabies for my sweet Ganymede.”

“Didn’t I tell you already, I don’t want to hear your stupid piano? Especially with the horse shit you were spewing a few minutes ago. You think I have any patience to listen to you play now, after all that?” Gan’s words slurred, and he cleared his throat before continuing. He pressed his fingers to the fresh wounds on his wrist and winced. It was good to remind himself of the displeasure they caused too. He frowned. “And don’t call me sweet. Or refer to me in any sense as _yours_.” He waited and, when he heard Marion move, he looked over to watch him leave. Only, Marion was heading in the opposite direction of the door, toward the piano. Gan sat up. “You can go now.”

“What were those letters you were so panicked over me seeing?” Marion sat before his instrument, cracking his knuckles before resting each finger on a key. “May I read them? I’m bored. I’ve read nearly every book in our library.”

“ _Can_ you read?”

“Hm.” Marion rolled his eyes before a slow, soft melody filled the air. “All animosity aside, I’d like to commission you. Of course, your pay would be having a place to sleep at night—Despite you rebelling against it every chance you get.”

“A commission.” Gan huffed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Clearly, he wasn’t going to get the space he wanted. He shook his head, but conceded. “What of?”

“A sunrise. Simple. A twin for my beloved—” The music stopped abruptly as Marion’s head snapped around to face his sunset portrait. He smiled to see it straightened, and the tune continued. “Ah… Anyway, I’ll leave any creative liberties to you. You know what I want, so bring it to life, Renaissance Man!”

Gan watched his fingers dance gracefully over the keys and tried to ignore the siren’s call of his music. It was…beautiful. Soberingly so. “Why would I accept?”

“Because you don’t want to starve or freeze to death on the streets.”

“You aren’t grateful for my work.”

“Your work hasn’t been _started_. I’ll be grateful when it’s finished. I don’t thank the chef that serves me undercooked meals, do you?” Marion’s head bobbed in time with the song, his back straight, pose free. “Besides, how can you know what I’ll be grateful for? It’s not as though you’ve taken the time to know me.”

 _I don’t_ want _to know you_ , was what he wanted to say. What he almost did say. But a gear skipped in his mind. He remembered his letter— _To the Golden Man_ —and sighed.

“How long have you played piano?”

“Oh! Making conversation now?” Marion laughed, and Gan almost regretted saying anything at all. Then something wistful entered that golden gaze and the music turned somber. “Longer than you’ve been alive. Is there a letter for me in your stash?”

“What makes you think you’re worth the parchment and ink?” Marion Gavotte just didn’t know when to stop pushing. The man liked to hear himself talk, Gan was gathering, so he decided to busy him with questions of his own. It wasn’t _easy_ , but easier. “Do you write your own music?”

“Mm, yes. This is an original piece. I haven’t played it in quite some time… Funny how these things pop up.” Marion scribbled a line of notes in his composition book, continuing to play with his left hand. “You see, the things I write are not secrets. Unlike, I suppose, the things you write. Oh, but I can respect a secret. Humans have so little to cling to in their insignificant lives. Keeping secrets offers you some sense of power and importance.” The score drifted off into a soothing finale, and Marion turned on his bench. “Your insults are creative, Ganymede. You might be good at writing songs as well. If you ever want to learn to play, I can sit you on my lap and guide your hands, no?”

“If you think I’ll take you up on that, you’re delusional,” Gan snapped. Even the thought of it burned his face, deepened the line between his brows. “Maybe I’ll play around with it at some point. If _you_ can do it, I’m sure anyone can.”

“Certainly, anyone can play.” Marion shrugged away the offense with an ease Gan envied. He picked up a new song, not looking as his fingers struck the keys. _Show-off._ “It does require a certain dexterity and patience, though. Which you clearly—”

An off note. Marion froze as his song crashed to a halt. That final key settled in the air, uncomfortable. It seemed to gain sentience in that little room, growing into something physical, monstrous. The noise it made was unfamiliar—Gan had never touched a piano in his life—yet, it reminded him of the screeching of gears. He watched the tension in Marion’s body, thought of how _ridiculous_ it was because, if he’d just kept playing, Gan wouldn’t have even known the difference. Now, there was some unreadable expression on the vampire’s face. Gan couldn’t translate it, but he thought it made Marion look just the slightest bit more _human_ , and—

“Cat.”

Something brushed by Gan’s ankles before skittering under the bed. _Belle_. He wondered when she’d escaped the bedroom in the first place, and his eyes fell on the doorway. Standing there was the boy who’d accompanied Marion at the auction. He looked to be in his late teen years, pale features softened by androgynous youth. As before, hair the color of an angel’s wings rested atop his head in a loose bun. Thin strands curled over his cheeks, mingled with white lashes. He didn’t smile, didn’t reveal any emotion at all, not even in the depths of those blood-red eyes. He simply stayed still, watching Marion with an icy patience. Gan shivered, and set to pulling his shirt back on. He wondered vaguely if winter came early this year.

“Warren.” Marion didn’t seem as chilled by his presence. He stood, shutting the casing over his keys, and smiled. “This is your first time meeting Ganymede, isn’t it?”

Warren’s gaze settled on Gan. Gan cursed Marion for turning the boy’s attention on him. He wasn’t prepared to receive it. Regardless, Warren spoke to him so directly, Gan felt the gears freeze over. “Pleasure.”

“Now, is that all you can say?” Marion asked. “Your new house guest has been simply dying to meet you. He—”

“Please keep your cat contained. Marion has allergies.”

“I thought it was you who had allergies?” Marion mused. Gan’s brow furrowed. Warren’s skin did look a bit patchy. Marion must have noticed the same thing because, suddenly, he laughed. “Ahhh. Allergies are such a _human_ affliction, aren’t they, Warren? Such a relief _you_ don’t have them.”

Warren pulled the scarf he wore up over his chin. He turned to Gan. “I can keep his key away if he annoys you.”

“That would be—” Marion smiled before he realized who it was Warren addressed. His expression dropped. “Ah. Two on one.”

Gan met Warren’s gaze, difficult as it was. His eyes reminded Gan of the ruby he wore, except that was warm against his skin, and everything about Warren seemed cold. Gan’s attention moved between the two vampires. Warren was the smaller of the two, he had less of a presence, but he commanded the space with a firm serenity Marion lacked. It was obvious who was the head of this house. Gan managed half a smile.

“Thank you. I’ll take you up on that if he doesn’t respect my privacy.” Gan cut Marion a glance, then looked back to Warren, who hadn’t moved. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Ganymede. Friends call me Gan. Feel free. I…think I remember seeing you at the art auction. You’re the gentleman that bought the fruit bowl, right? I was one of the artists there. If I can paint anything for you, just let me know.” He forced a bigger smile and everything. At first, it was to get into Warren’s good graces. Now, as he watched Marion fume from the corner of his eye, it was also to piss off that nosy, golden fool.

With a mew, Belle leapt onto Gan’s lap. Smiling came easier then, and he smoothed a hand over her fur. “Sorry if she’s nosy. She’ll mind her own business once she’s used to this place. I _wanted_ a room on the first floor so she could just come in through a window and leave as she pleased, but Marion insists I stay here, I guess.”

“Alright, brave hero. Rescue the poor tavern boy from the clutches of this nasty witch who only wishes to trap him up in this high tower.” Marion draped a hand over his forehead, sighing theatrically. Warren paid him no mind.

“Gan,” Warren said, sampling the name. He knelt to gather an armful of canvases. “Would you like help moving everything?”

“Pah, he doesn’t have much of anything. Before, he carried it all by himself. He’s a strong boy. Strong blood in those veins, wouldn’t you know.” Marion rushed to Warren’s side. “Warren, put the portraits down, you’re being careless. See, that corner is already bending.”

“Perfectionist.” Warren’s voice sounded flat.

“You say it like it’s a _bad_ thing. I’ll move the paintings, Warren. Why don’t you take care of the _cat_?” Marion took the paintings from Warren, who didn’t fight it. “You can never be too careful when it comes to art. It’s one of the few things that will stay with us over the centuries, and never die.”

“You know, if you wanted me to like you, you’d be as considerate as your friend here.” Gan crossed his arms and, for the first time since he watched Marion pay for all those drinks at the tavern, he felt smug. “Thank you, Warren. I appreciate the help. I’ll take the paintings if you’d be kind enough to grab my quilt there.” Gan moved to pile his supplies into his new bag. Belle scampered over to help, nudging her nose into everything he touched. Gan couldn’t suppress a quiet laugh. “Again, I'm really sorry about Belle. She’s a stray, but she’s all I had left. I couldn’t bring myself to leave her.”

“I’ve learned not to pick up stray animals after this one followed me home.” Warren gestured to Marion, who raised his chin defiantly and pretended not to notice.

“I didn’t see much of you last night,” Gan said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “You must be a busy man to afford such a beautiful home.”

“It’s been paid off for a long time now. Old money.” Warren retrieved Gan’s quilt and folded it over one slender arm. “I do accept odd jobs here and there to feed Marion’s needlessly extravagant tastes.”

Marion laughed bitterly, as though he thought mention of his name were an invitation to the conversation. “If you believe you’re anything more than cattle to him, you are wildly deluded, _Gan_. He’s just trying to take my toys or prove some convoluted _point_. That’s it.”

“You’re especially haughty this evening.”

Marion cringed at Warren’s soft-spoken comment. He threw back his head on another sharp laugh. “I didn’t have enough to drink. Maybe I’ll go out on the town while you two bond.”

“Leave then,” Gan said. “And don’t call me Gan. I said my friends call me that. I’ll decide for myself how Warren treats me. So far, it’s more than a cocktail, like you treat me.”

“Please,” Marion snorted. “Cocktails don’t get the privilege of being serenaded by beautiful, original music.”

“Alright, so I’m a ‘privileged’ cocktail.” Gan grabbed his easel and pushed it into Marion’s arms. That appeared to offend him more than anything Gan had said that evening, and Gan bit back another smirk on his way out the door.

“How long have you been painting?” Warren asked, leading the way.

“Oh. Since I could hold a paint brush. It was either painting or violin, and I’m shit with music. Parents didn’t expect me to love art as much as I do, though.” He glanced over his shoulder at Marion, who struggled to get a comfortable grip on the easel. He held it up too high, and wood smacked against the top of the doorframe. Marion cursed, and Gan snorted. That was what he got for wearing heels when he was already stupidly tall. He looked back at Warren, who wasn’t much taller than himself. “I could paint you something, if you want?”

“I’ll consider it.”

Gan let Warren guide him to the first floor. He was prepared to set up his belongings there, but Warren continued down another flight of stairs. The basement. Gan paused, looking curiously around. The top step creaked when he stood on it, but Warren made no noise going down.

“With the help of a tall shelf, the cat can still climb through the basement window,” Warren explained. “We don’t have any bedrooms on the first floor fit for holding guests at the moment. Marion will fix that. In the meantime, the basement is fully furnished. In fact, my own room is down here. I like to be as far away from Marion as possible. I think you might share that sentiment.”

Gan stopped to consider when he felt a push from behind. He stumbled, then whipped his head around to see Marion blow him a kiss. He scowled and drove his shoulder back into the man’s chest. He continued down the stairs before Marion recovered his balance. “The basement is fine. Better than where I was, after all. And I don’t mind sharing a space with you. You seem like a quiet type.”

“Marion talks enough for both of us.”

“It’s funny,” Marion piped up, ducking low to keep from dragging the easel across the low ceiling. “Plenty of people seem so _fond_ of the things I do with my mouth.”

“Delusion is a powerful tool,” Warren said blankly.

“So, Warren, you’re sure being close to your room with my cat won’t bother you? Of course, I’ll keep my door shut at all times to keep her from wandering, but you won’t be troubled at all, will you?” Gan thought he might be overdoing it. He found himself wanting a reaction from Marion, as Marion so obviously wanted reactions from him, but the high pitch he took on felt like it belonged behind a customer service desk. It wasn’t convincing at all.

Warren didn’t seem to mind. He led them into a wood-paneled room with old floral wallpaper. The only window was high up, at ground level, too small to let any real light in. But, Gan thought, he was right; a tall shelf and Belle’s penchant for mischief would do the trick. Again, the doorknob squeaked when Gan rested a hand on it, but Warren entered soundlessly. Marion, however, bowled into the room with a clatter and a curse.

“Oh! Good!” Marion swung from one side to the other, surveying the room. “It’s a place as unimpressive and lifeless as you are! Now I see why you prefer it here.”

“Marion, you can set that on the bed for now. Thanks,” Gan said curtly. He flicked his attention back to Warren. He hoped Marion hated it. “Anyway, Warren, what would you like me to paint for you? I can even do your portrait. I haven’t been able to do that in a while.”

“You haven’t even started my commission yet,” Marion protested. He dropped the easel on the bed with a huff and, when Belle moved to sniff it, he stomped to startle her away. That must have satisfied him because he grinned. “Honestly, what kind of business are you running here? Your art alone can only do so much for you, dear. You need a certain ‘ _je ne sais quoi_ ’ to be a successful businessman, no? You shouldn’t be so cruel to your teacher. Who else will show you the ropes?”

“I think I’d rather have a portrait of you.”

Gan startled at Warren’s reply. The boy measured him with an intense red gaze. Gan breathed something close to a laugh. “You’re mad. I’m not painting myself. Why would you want something like that when you could just look at me? I’m right down the hall, you know.”

Marion laughed a loud, raucous cackle. It was as though he’d just made sense of a joke told long before. Warren met his eyes, red on gold. At first, Gan thought nothing of it. Then, after a few moments slipped past, he started to wonder if he was the one left out of a joke.

At last, Warren glanced at him. “Sorry. You were right. I am a busy man.”

With that, Warren departed. Gan watched him go. A flutter of something he couldn’t name cooled his chest. If he had to put a color to it…silver, maybe. Glittery. It beckoned to him, strangely attractive, and he took a step toward it.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go there.” Marion watched him with an arched brow. “He bites.”

“Yeah?” Gan hesitated, then fell back again, embarrassed that he’d been caught in such a state. He shook away a feeling that could only be called enchantment. It wasn’t hard to shed once he met Marion’s gaze. “So do you.”

Marion offered a dry smile, a flash of his fangs. His expression relaxed as he searched Gan’s face. His eyes darted from below Gan’s eye, to the middle of his cheek, to two spots just beneath his mouth, and Gan knew he was studying his moles. At last, he fixed his gaze on Gan’s own. “It’s really a shame you won’t paint a sunrise for me. I was so looking forward to it.”

Marion spun on a heel, whistling on his way out. Gan sighed, checked to make sure Belle was in the room, and shut the door once he found her stalking a flicker of moonlight on the floor. His gaze followed that moonbeam up to the window. An empty bookcase stood in the corner and Gan pressed his back to the oak. With a grunt, he scraped the shelf across the floor. Belle hopped on and began to groom.

“Okay, sure,” Gan said, straining against the furniture’s weight. “Enjoy the ride.”

He stopped once the shelf stood flush against the windowed wall. Belle cooed her approval and skipped to the top. Now, he had to get the window open. He tilted his head far back and muttered a curse. His eyes returned to his easel. If Marion Gavotte had taught him anything at all, it had nothing to do with etiquette.

Gan hoisted his easel up over his head. Why Marion had thought carrying it this way would benefit him, Gan had no clue. It helped him reach the window latch, though, which he popped loose with the top of the wooden structure. He redistributed the balance of the easel and leaned forward to prop the window open. It took a few tries but, once the glass gave, Gan let go of a long breath.

“There you go, Belle. Go on outside.” Belle considered before skittering down onto the bed. Gan watched her sprawl across both pillows and nodded to himself. “All my efforts, wasted.”

Belle tucked her face beneath her paws, and Gan couldn’t argue with that. He lifted his easel back onto the floor, re-centering it in the heart of the room. Once he placed a new canvas there, he continued mixing his paints. Rosy hues bled into passionate ambers and golds. There were splashes of violet and accents of blue, cool tones to offset an otherwise fiery blaze. The colors of a sunrise.

Gan worked late, swatching and sampling, until he felt hungry again. He should sleep to escape the feeling, he thought, because there was no food for him here. _He_ was the food. His hand pressed to the marks on his wrist. Now, they were little more than bruised scars. The ruby’s pulse lulled him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, The Merchant, an old flame returns to Gan's life. Marion's extremely curious. Also, Gan finally takes a damn bath. Stay tuned.


	10. The Merchant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, new update! I'm back in school and working on quite a few different writing projects now, so I will still be updating once every two weeks (sometimes more). However, I'll be updating whichever story strikes my fancy at the time. Feel free to check out my other works (a lot of Hetalia, if you're into that). I'm hoping to get faster and get more chapters done for multiple works as I go, so wish me luck, and I wish you all happy reading! Feedback is always cherished.

“Are you ever going to change your clothes?”

Gan blinked at the ceiling. No dreams clung to the edges of his mind. No nightmares either. Reality was worse than any terror his brain could conjure. As though to confirm that fact, the scars on his neck tinged with hurt. He sat up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar basement, and all over again, it struck him where he was. His eyes fell to the blonde occupying his doorway. Marion Gavotte crinkled his nose.

“You’ve been wearing that same dull outfit since I first met you, I swear it.” Golden eyes moved over Gan’s body. He recoiled deeper under the blankets and stared right back. His body ached, and his eyes burned.

Gan had spent the last few hours drifting in and out of consciousness. It wasn’t sleep, exactly, but without work to drag him out of bed, he found himself most unwilling to move. Once or twice, he’d rolled to the edge of the mattress, urged himself to place a foot on the floor, and then the other, and then stand up. He never made it to the first step, though, and a dreamless darkness was always waiting to claim him. Asleep, he was comfortably numb. Now, his muscles scolded him for lying around for so long, and—God, just how long _had_ he slept?

He blinked up at the tiny window slot behind his shelf. Hardly any light shone through. He supposed his biggest indicator of time was that the _vampire_ had risen before Gan had. He sighed.

“Well, you can’t be seen waltzing around this splendid town in…that.” Marion leaned against the doorframe, and Gan pulled his quilt over his head, so he wouldn’t have to see the man. He willed himself to sleep again. He could try to function tomorrow.

After a beat of silence, Gan peeked through a hole in his covers. Marion entered at the same time, dragging long fingers over the walls. Gan snorted. “Oh. Yeah. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

“This _is_ my home.” Marion frowned. It took a moment for his eyes to find Gan’s among the blankets, but when they did, his smile returned. “Ganymede, we must pay a visit to the tailor. Get you fitted for something that isn’t, hm, rags. No?”

 _No,_ Gan thought, but he let the quilt slide back around his shoulders and shrugged. “Exactly how many tailors will be willing to take a customer this late?”

“I’ll answer your question with another,” Marion allowed. He stopped caressing a poorly papered wall to tilt his head. His eyes glittered with a humor Gan didn’t share. “Do you assume I get my outfits without knowing a skilled tailor with wickedly late hours?”

Gan watched Marion. Caution and uncertainty swirled alongside the fatigue. Beneath that, he noticed a hollow pain in his stomach. His body felt heavy, his mind was clouded, and he yawned through his teeth without breaking eye contact. At last, he raked his fingers through hair that felt too slick and knew he must look a mess. Marion, of course, appeared to glow. For the briefest of seconds, Gan thought he might envy vampires for their effortless beauty, if nothing else.

“Fine.” Gan slumped his shoulders. “I want to eat first. And bathe. Is there a washroom down here?”

Marion continued gazing at him. At first, he didn’t appear to register Gan’s query. His eyes darted over Gan’s face, as though connecting the dots of his freckles. He blinked back to attention. “Ah. A bath, yes. This way.”

A slow grin spread over Marion’s face. Gan didn’t think he trusted that look, but Marion turned before he could read too far into it. He left the room, so Gan had no choice but to follow. A rush of cool air crawled over him, and he glanced back at the bed. It had made his movements stiff and painful from lounging too long, but it had kept him warm too. He didn’t feel like leaving. Even so, he trailed into the hall, speeding up with a grumble when Marion didn’t slow his stride for him.

“Warren won’t mind sharing his washroom. He’s very generous,” Marion said over his shoulder. Gan swore he saw him biting back a smile, a dangerous flash in his eyes. Then again, he could have just been feeling overly suspicious. He let it pass.

“Here you are.” Marion stopped so abruptly, Gan nearly collided with him. His mouth opened on a curse, but Marion silenced him with an outstretched hand. He wiggled his fingers. “First, I’ll need your key. Then I’ll prepare the tub for you.”

Gan’s brows drew together, tight. “Why would I give you my key?” He found the little cut of brass inside his vest and closed his fist around it. “This is for the front door. Not the bathroom. No. I’ll take care of my own bath.”

He shouldered past Marion and set a hand on the doorknob. The door clicked open without resistance. Gan gave a thin smile before heading inside. It wasn’t locked. Marion didn’t need his key. The bastard was just mad Warren wouldn’t give him his own key back. Served him right for being a nuisance. Gan shut the door in his face.

There was a long pause, during which Gan almost laughed. Then, Marion’s muffled voice sounded. “If you need anything, _chéri_ , just call.”

“I won’t,” Gan said, mostly to himself, and listened to the footsteps disappearing down the corridor. He slumped back against the door and examined the bathroom interior. No windows graced the walls, and the only light source was a lamp running low on oil. A clawfoot tub stood against the far wall, flanked by a petite wash basin and a large round mirror. Gan made his way over, shrugging out of his clothes all the while. He gave his shirt a tentative sniff and wrinkled his nose. Marion Gavotte might have been right about one thing: He couldn’t keep wearing this same ragged outfit.

After twisting on the tap and listening at the door to make sure no one stood outside, Gan ducked back into the hall. He hurried to his room, not because nudity embarrassed him—He’d spent most of his life being dressed by servants and maids, after all—but because he did _not_ want to engage in another conversation with his insufferable housemate. Gan rummaged through his bundled belongings, snatched up a change of clothes, and returned to the filling tub. Steam rose thick from the water’s surface and, when he stepped in, the liquid risked scalding him. He sunk down anyway and let his body adjust to the heat. He used to take his baths like this all the time, before. He could get used to it again.

A shuddering breath purged Gan’s body of its stress. He scrubbed a small bar of soap over his arms and noticed that all his cuts and wounds had healed, save for the bite marks on his wrist and neck. Even those had faded to pink bruises. Gan shook his head and glanced at the ruby he hadn’t removed from his finger. It appeared dull now. Perhaps because it wasn’t actively working to ‘keep him hale,’ whatever that meant? Gan sighed and plunged his head below water.

Down here, Gan was weightless. Fluid warmth swirled around his ears, between his fingers, wove into the curled strands of his hair. He felt water flutter against his eyelids, tickle the edges of his lips, and he nearly smiled. This was his element. It symbolized him, if the tales were to be believed. _Zeus’s cupbearer, immortalized in the constellation Aquarius_. Gan opened his mouth to a stream of bubbles. If he could breathe beneath the still surface, he wouldn’t come up for hours. But, because that was unrealistic, Gan did need to come up for air. When he did, a pale face stared at him from the doorway. He choked on a mouthful of water. Warren didn’t take the opportunity to speak, so Gan forced his own words in between fits of coughing.

“I’m sorry.” Gan wiped water and spit from his chin. His hair obscured most of Warren’s expression from sight, and Gan didn’t move to push it back. “I didn’t expect you to be in here.”

Silence followed. Warren’s chest rose slightly on a breath, but otherwise, he did not move. Gan hesitated.

“I—” Gan drew his knees to his chest, suddenly abashed where he hadn’t been before. “I figured Marion would have told you.”

Another quiet moment passed before Warren tilted his head. “Do you have everything you need? The water’s at a comfortable temperature?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. I’m fine. Did…” When he pushed his hair out of his eyes, he wished he hadn't. Warren’s gaze was piercing. Gan shifted. “Should I use another bathroom?”

“To avoid any awkward situations for you in the future, Marion will be happy to direct you to some of our other washrooms.”

“I’ve given him the grand tour, Warren!” Marion’s voice came from the hallway. Something sharp jumped beneath Gan’s skin. He sunk lower in water that suddenly felt too hot. “He didn’t appreciate it.”

“He’ll do it,” Warren insisted, without acknowledging Marion’s intrusion. “For now, enjoy. Marion will bring you a robe and fresh towels.”

Gan nearly thanked him, but Warren left before he could, shutting the door behind him. Through the wood, Gan heard heated whispers. Something about cattle, about _control_ , and then footsteps and Marion saying, “Well, that wasn’t very nice at all.”

More footsteps followed. Gan sighed and pulled the plug on the drain. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected his bath to be both warm _and_ relaxing. Not in this house. He stepped out of the tub and set to dressing himself. When he glanced in the mirror, he looked the same, except his ratty clothes held fewer bloodstains and his hair was wet with water instead of grease. He rucked up his curls and went to the door.

“Marion!” Gan shouted at the same time he opened the door. Marion stood on the other side, eyebrows raised, and took a step back.

“Ganymede.” Marion’s eyes flicked over Gan’s body, lingering where his clothes clung to wet skin. He gestured to the towels in his arms, then rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. “Our lovely tailor may be up late, but I assume she does sleep at some point. Let’s be on our way.”

Gan stumbled when the towels were thrust into his chest. He nearly said something but—No. This was a kind act on Marion’s part, even if it _was_ ordered by Warren. He shut his mouth. Marion took that as a cue to open his.

“While we’re out, let’s see about visiting a barber, no?” Marion pinched a long strand of Gan’s hair between his fingers, then raked damp curls back over Gan’s face. Gan scowled and shoved them back again. “You look barbaric. I’ll try to dress a bit more modestly to walk beside you.”

“Why do you want me all dressed up? You embarrassed for me?” Gan fisted his hand into his hair. It looked _fine._ Perhaps a bit long when wet, but… He frowned back at the mirror. “I guess it could use a trim.”

Marion grinned. Instead of replying, he gave a sharp whistle, turned on a heel, and gestured for Gan to follow. He was down the hall before Gan registered his movements.

“What? Hey. I needed you. I wanted—Fuck.” Gan hurried after him. He threw a towel over his head and set to scrubbing the water from his hair. “I wanted to clean out the tub. Clearly, Warren prefers I use a different bathroom, so the least I can do is… You know. Clean his.”

“Pah.” Marion waved the comment away without looking back. “Warren will just redo everything his way after you leave, so there’s really no point.” He stopped and turned golden eyes on Gan, pondering. “Of course…” A slow smile split his lips. His eyes flashed. “If you insist, I’m sure I can fetch you some soaps and disinfectants. Do you know how to clean? Living on such filthy streets, I’m sure you’ve forgotten how.”

“Do you hear yourself speak sometimes? Do you know how stupid you sound? At all?” Gan stepped past him. “You know what? Let’s just go. He’s going to reclean it anyway, like you said, so… And besides, I don’t want you trying to make me into a personal maid.”

Marion appeared at Gan’s side, laughing. “Oh, no? Pity. I was so eager to see you in a puffy skirt and stockings.”

Gan snorted and looked Marion over. “Sounds more your style than mine. Thanks, though.”

“I’m flattered, though I’ve yet to find stockings long enough.” Marion ran a hand up his own leg and Gan looked away, sparking a fresh wave of laughter. “You wouldn’t know anything about _that_ issue, would you, my short friend?”

“I’m average height,” Gan murmured without slowing his stride. He sighed. “I guess I should move around and wear myself out so I can sleep properly tonight. I can’t believe I slept in so late.” He blew out a breath. He still didn’t know what time it was. _Too late, whatever it is._ He wouldn’t make a habit of this. “Are we going to pick up more food or have you already taken care of it?”

“Ah, I’d forgotten how needy humans are.” Marion paused at the bottom of the stairs to usher Gan ahead of him. “We’ll add food to the list. The bakery isn’t far from home. If we stop by just before sunrise, they’ll be finishing up their first batch of goods. Of course, there’s the fish market too, and the fruit stand… I’m considering which routes to take. Ah. Definitely hair first. I’m not bringing a shaggy dog in to be fitted for clothes.”

So, he did think of Gan as a pet. Gan grimaced.

“Speaking of animals, I know of a very nice pet sanctuary just down the street from the barber… We should visit it. Let you take a look around. Consider giving that wretched cat a new home.”

Gan cut a glance over his shoulder. “I’ll say it again, since your intelligence and memory are both clearly impaired: I’m not giving Belle up. Ever. She’s my friend. You might not understand what it’s like to have one of those, I get it.”

“I have plenty of friends.” Marion frowned. “Enough of that. Now, go finish up any last-minute errands while I get ready.”

Marion shrugged past Gan, too roughly, so his robe slipped off his shoulder. Gan wouldn’t have noticed such a thing, except there was something _there_. Red welts and ropy pink scars embroidered the exposed skin. Gan’s eyes narrowed on the sight. What…?

“Oh?” Marion caught him staring and smiled. He casually pulled the fabric back up to his collar. “Unless you’re dying to keep me company while I dress?”

Gan blinked. “Nothing—I mean _nothing_ —would nauseate me more than seeing your naked ass.” He returned Marion’s favor by shoving past him.

“Hurry up,” Gan said, and then regretted it because he was sure Marion deliberately moved even slower after that. He didn’t know the golden bastard well, but he knew enough to recognize when someone was aiming to irk him. Already, Marion seemed to make it a nightly mission. Gan loathed to admit he was _good_ at it.

Sighing, he found a seat on the stairs. His hands drifted to his hair. _Barbaric._ He scoffed. A vampire’s opinion meant as much to him as the stupid stories people told about his namesake. Still… He caught his reflection in polished tile and tamed his hair back best he could.

*

 “Ganymede!”

The summon clawed at Gan’s ears. He held his breath and willed silence to follow. He was greeted instead by Marion descending the stairs in ruffles and lace. A white blouse was tucked into dark violet pants that clung to his hips. His hair was bound by a golden ribbon. Gold, like his boots, and the sparse jewelry he donned, and of course, his _eyes_ , which shimmered with powdered shadow. His lips were glossed with a color he must have considered _modest_. Gan rolled his eyes and shifted over on the stairwell to allow Marion passage.

“Come here, my little cupbearer!” Marion stopped behind him to squeeze his shoulder. “It’s time for our night out together!”

“Don’t call me that. There’s a difference between me and the dumb myth.” Gan shrugged Marion’s hand away and stood. His eyes flicked to Marion’s shoulder, covered now, then away. “And don’t refer to this as our ‘night out together.’ That’s…” He fumbled for a word before settling on, “Stupid.”

“Oh, no? Not our night out? We are going out together…at night…” Marion cocked his head. “What would you call it?”

Gan felt a push to argue, but he thrust it back down. He gestured to the front door. Marion appeared satisfied with that, plucked a coat from its rack, and headed through. Gan followed him into a dusky blue eve. The only good thing about Marion’s absurdly long ‘morning’ routine was that Gan’s hair had dried in the meantime. Otherwise, he was certain it would have frozen to his skull. He wrapped his arms around himself. Grey breaths puffed from his lips. _Asshole_ , he thought as he studied the thick wool of Marion’s jacket. Of course, it wasn’t Marion’s fault Gan didn’t own proper winterwear. Still, discomfort turned to irritation the longer they walked. He focused on keeping his anger silent, and that frustrated him too. Luckily, his gears were frozen into a sluggish grind.

“Remember, first stop is the barber. We mustn’t dawdle so we can catch him in time.” Marion came too close suddenly. His hands tangled in Gan’s hair, sent a jolt through his scalp. “So, _chér_ , what do you have planned for this unruly mop?”

“Don’t know.” Gan ducked away and rubbed the tingles from his skin. He hadn’t been touched this much by another person since… Ever, really. Julianna had tried, but Gan was even better at evading her than he was at dodging Marion. He’d need to work on the latter. “You’re the one forcing me to do this.”

Gan drew his gaze up to the faint scatter of stars. Their twinkling dragged his mind away from frigid autumn winds. A light fog obscured his view, but no clouds, and Gan was grateful. He hoped there would be clear skies like this when he decided to paint that sunrise.

 _If_ he decided to paint that sunrise.

He looked at the man who strode beside him. Marion Gavotte, who’d requested the damn sunrise in the first place. Who hadn’t seen one in, presumably, quite a while. Marion Gavotte, who bounced on his heel when he walked, and whistled softly to fill the silence, and hid scars beneath his shirt that no ruby ring could heal.

Gan blinked at that final thought. He had no basis for his assumption—Perhaps those wounds _could_ be healed. Even so, judging from Marion’s web of mangled tissue, Gan figured he’d need to wear a ring for a very long time. He glanced at his own ring. Red. Like fire. Like Liam’s hair. Like…

“You’re still hungry, aren’t you?”

 _Red like blood_.

Marion stared. His whistling turned to ice on the breeze. Gan noticed the stain of pink on his cheeks, coloring the tip of his nose. _So, he’s cold too._ He nodded, and Marion’s gaze settled on his neck, heavy.

“Are you teasing me?”

“Teasing you? No. But I could.” He could pull back right now. Maybe prick his finger on the tailor’s loom and bleed, just a little bit. He moved back to lean against a brick building. The streets were empty. Too early for the city nightlife to abound, but too late for any dinner rush. It was quiet. They were alone. Marion seemed to be realizing that as well, because his eyes glazed with temptation.

“I wasn’t too hungry… Until you dangled the carrot in front of me.” Marion swayed. He covered it up by walking to Gan’s side. “You’re not _looking forward_ to this little exchange, are you, Ganymede? That would be dreadfully, ah, out of character for you.”

Gan clenched his teeth. The bites felt…nice. Good. But Gan wasn’t offering for that reason. He was offering because Marion had shown restraint when he’d fed last. The vampire was simply more _manageable_ when he was coming down from a blood high. Besides, Gan was curious to see just how efficient his ruby ring was. It had nothing to do with the bite itself, or the hideous pleasure that came with it. Gan swallowed. He rolled up his sleeve without word.

Marion laughed breathily, his eyes still caught on Gan’s collar. “I don’t want you to be dizzy during our first night out together. Although, perhaps you’d be more obedient that way… Oh, never mind. You’d fight me with even just an ounce of blood left in your body, wouldn’t you?”

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Gan thrust his wrist forward, pleased by Marion’s disappointed frown. “Pretty sure I won’t ever willingly take orders from you. Ever.”

“Never willingly, hm?” Marion’s gaze lingered on Gan’s throat. At last, he met his eyes. A long thread of silence sounded, like a chord on one of those godawful violins Gan’s mother made him play. Gan gazed back. His jaw set. But something around him _shifted_ then. That violin song turned sweet, rich, like a silver bow drawing on golden strings. Gan’s pulse fluttered, skipped, and his lips parted to help him breathe. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Marion’s own, not that he tried. He staggered forward a step.

“Oh, good…” Marion purred. His eyes flashed excitedly, and for a second, Gan nearly managed to wrench himself from the pool of honey surrounding his mind. Then, Marion’s voice continued. It was soft, melodious, with all the persuasion of a lover. “Don’t you _want_ to give me your neck, Ganymede?”

Gan’s chin tipped back. Wind traced the turn of his jaw, but it felt _warm_ somehow. Everything felt warm, starting with his chest and seeping out into the air around him. He tried to speak, but his mouth moved clumsily and all he managed were a few broken vowels.

“Don’t you?” Marion cooed. He sketched the curve of Gan’s side, the faint ridges of his ribs, and his palm settled on his chest. There, Gan knew, Marion could feel the steady swell of his heart. Gan pressed closer, and Marion gave a hum of encouragement.

One of them leaned in. Gan didn’t know who. All he knew was that a breath shuddered against his neck. Cool lips grazed his pulse. Skin broke. There was a short, vocalized gasp. It must have been him. Marion’s mouth was too preoccupied; all his noises stuck in his throat or muffled against Gan’s flesh. Something sticky, warm, trickled down his collar and his eyes fluttered back, blurred by sensation. Fingers snared in his shirt. One of his knees buckled, just as a hot weight careened against him. Bricks appeared at his back, and then under and over him as the world churned into a gory mess of ecstasy.

It took too long to realize the whimpering was coming from _him_. Finally, Gan stirred as though rising from a deep, hypnotic slumber. He blinked the surrounding fog into shapes: A brick exterior at his back, cobblestone beneath his feet. Marion’s hands curled into his shirt collar. Streaks of blood on his skin. Marion’s tongue lingered over the final drops. He withdrew with a shiver.

“Ready to go, _mon beau_?”

Gan jerked his hands away. He didn’t want to touch this man. Didn’t want to look at him. Without balance, he wobbled before slumping against the wall. “Don’t you call me that…”

Marion chuckled. The breathy sound rustled fallen leaves, whispered in the alley nearby, until everything, the whole street was mocking him in that same soft laughter.

“A minute. Gimme a minute.” Gan shoved his hair back. A trim. He needed… His fingers drifted to the crook of his neck, wet with blood. His eyes snapped to Marion’s. “Are you full now?”

Marion started to answer. Gan didn’t give him the chance. He punched his arm, hard. Knuckles cracked against a slender bicep. Marion gasped, staggered by the force of it. Gan’s lip curled.

“Whatever you just did to me, _never_ do that shit again.”

“What’s wrong? You gave me permission.” Marion rubbed his bruised arm, his expression tightened by pain and the aggravation that came with it. It softened after a moment. “Mm… You’re so generous, Ganymede. Just like in the tales, you always make sure the gods don’t go thirsty. Ah, but enough fun for now. Would you like help walking?”

“You _know_ I wouldn’t have let you do that.” If that was how his kind expressed… _intimacy_ , Gan wanted nothing to do with it. He cringed. “And, look, just fucking—call me Gan and forget my full name.”

Marion’s eyes lit up. All at once, he seemed to forget the pain in his arm. Both hands fell over his heart. “Have I been elevated to friend status?”

“If it gets you to shut up about that stupid story…whatever. We’re the best of friends.” _You would probably just hypnotize me to call you my friend anyway._ Gan’s shudder gripped his whole body.

“You must be socially repulsive to all your friends!” Marion tossed his head back. He tried walking, made it a few steps, then held out his hand. “I’m honored.”

Gan ignored his hand, but Marion snatched it up before he could get too far away. “Oh, no, _chéri._ This is for me, not you.” Marion leaned against him for support and, while Gan would have liked nothing more than to pull away and watch him tumble to the ground, he only grumbled. His own legs still shook. He hooked his fingers into Marion’s sleeve while they walked and, somehow, avoided his amused gaze all the way to the barber.

The barbershop had been tiny, not at all the magnificent salon Gan expected. He was wrestled into a reclining chair by a man who talked too much, too fast. He tried to relax while sharp blades snipped at his curls, but each wild gesture the barber made to illustrate his tales only worried him more. Finally, he told the man the cut was fine as it was, shed his sheet, and slinked through the exit before anyone could protest.

“Well,” Gan said when Marion joined his side. He raked his fingers through freshly chopped layers. “Am I presentable for you now? Not embarrassing to look at me, right?”

Marion glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Would you comb the hair out of your face? Really, Ganymede, it makes it hard to see all your pretty freckles.”

“I told you already.” Gan turned his face away from Marion’s outstretched hand. “Call me Gan.”

“Oh, and start thinking what we should fill the kitchen with.” Marion ruffled his curls, ignoring him. He offered an arm. “Hurry along now, dear.”

“I can walk myself, _dear_.” So, Gan walked ahead. He only fell back a few steps once he remembered he didn’t know where he was going. Marion laughed and took the lead again, after that.

They delved into the bowels of the city, closer to Gan’s old home than his new one. He must have looked confused, because Marion spoke up. “Ah, this is not where all the highborn ladies go to hem their skirts, or where Warren comes to buy his gloves, I admit it. But something about this old store feels like home. And it’s run by someone I might consider a friend.”

“I didn’t ask,” Gan muttered. He took note of the information regardless.

A bell rang when Marion pushed open a white wooden door. Gan wouldn’t have noticed this was an establishment if Marion hadn’t whistled for him to follow. He shuffled sideways up the two narrow steps leading inside; otherwise, he might have stumbled off the side. Marion didn’t hold the door for him, so he had to catch it when it came swinging back. He shoved it open again, grumbling, and a high voice hit his ears.

“Marion Gavotte! You’re earlier in the month than usual.” A stout woman with auburn curls too wild to tame took a pin from her mouth and stuck it through her apron. Blue eyes lit bright over scarlet cheeks. “I hope you don’t have any rips or tears in your new clothes. But if you, do I’d be proud to mend them for you, don’t you know it.”

Marion laughed. He had to double over to embrace the woman; she couldn’t be much taller than five feet. “Flora, darling! Everything in my wardrobe is as gorgeous and sturdy as the day you sewed it.”

“The _night_ I sewed it,” the woman called Flora corrected. Her smiling eyes landed on Gan then. He shrunk in the doorway. “So, this must be an appointment for you, then. Hop up on the podium, duck, we’ll see what old Flora can fix for you.” She fished a long string marked with black intervals from her pocket and ushered Gan over. “I didn’t think Mari had many friends, he’s so bloody fickle. How do you know him, sugar?”

“Why does it matter?” Gan walked stiffly toward the raised platform. The familiarity and merriment in the room chafed at him for some reason. He wasn’t used to such a warm atmosphere. It felt fake to him, too comfortable to be sincere. His gears clicked once, but when he noticed Flora’s raised brow, they stalled. He straightened up, sheepish. “Er. I…I paint for him. He came by the tavern I worked at, and that’s how we met.”

“Ohhh, the tavern!” Flora laughed. Gan would have felt embarrassed, had the sound not been so genuine. She planted her hands on Gan’s back and drove him onto the podium, where he almost tripped stepping onto it. “It’s been ages since I been in one of those, let me tell you that. I should stop by for a drink sometime. Which one are you at?”

“Uh.” Gan shifted, then made a noise when Flora batted his arms into place and wrestled her measuring string around him.

“Oh, his old schedule conflicted with the one we’ve worked out between us,” Marion interjected. “I’m afraid his new career has entirely replaced the old.”

“I can’t believe you stole such a strong looking boy from his workplace. They must be suffering without such a hard worker.” Flora clicked her tongue. She spoke to Marion even as she nudged Gan’s feet apart and tugged at his collar, sleeves, and waist. “You’ve always been so greedy.”

“Careful with the boy, Flora, he’s shy around pretty girls like you.”

Flora’s laughter sounded like wind chimes. She patted an ample belly before indicating the crow’s feet beneath her eyes. “Stop your kissing my ass, Mari. You know I haven’t been pretty since I was a girl.”

Gan listened while they talked. Discussion was starting to settle more easily around him. He smiled softly at Flora’s nickname. Mari. It worked. He was so busy watching the vampire straddling a rocking chair that he nearly missed Flora’s question.

“What do you like to paint, ducky?”

“What? Oh. I paint anything. People, nature, objects.” He shrugged, and she reprimanded him with a sharp jerk of the arm. He muttered a sorry and finished with, “Whatever will sell.”

“Alright, honey,” Flora said, patting her hip before studying some numbers she’d scribbled on scrap parchment. “Let’s get to looking at some color schemes.”

Marion stood and raised a finger. “Ah, Flora, I did have some ideas I’d like to discuss with you.” He gestured to Gan, who stood awkwardly on the podium, looking over his chest and hips and thighs. All the places Flora had measured. He imagined the numbers were smaller than the last time he’d been measured. He’d need to get back on his usual exercise regimen, and soon. Marion went on. “Consider, a light blue. Perhaps grey sky or cadet.”

Flora grinned at the suggestion, dusted off her hands, and headed to a rack of different fabrics. “That’s what I like. A customer who knows what he wants. You always have been so decisive, Mari, dear.”

“Flora.” Gan spoke up too quietly, too slow. When the eyes in the room turned to him, he frowned. Conversation had been flowing so smoothly without him. Now, everything halted, and his words felt clunky. “You know, I don’t really like those. I prefer things like…brown and tan. White, grey. Green is okay too. Earth tones.”

“The blues too," Marion piped up. He drummed his knuckles over his coin purse. “After all, ah, I’m buying.”

“You really have a knack for ruining things for me, Mari. Seriously.” Gan felt ungainly shuffling over to Marion’s side. Still, the vampire was more familiar than the seamstress bustling and cursing around her shop. He felt like a lost child. “She’s nice though. Why does she know _you?_ ”

Marion glanced over at his use of the nickname. He shrugged and called out to Flora. “What has it been, Flora? Five years? Six?”

“Has it? Whatever it’s been, you don’t look a day older than the night I met you, wouldn’t you know it!” Flora chuckled from behind an assortment of fabrics piled high in her arms. Marion moved to help her get some of the items onto a cluttered desk. “Come now, sugar, my eyes ain’t as sharp as they used to be. I’m gonna need help picking out a proper hue.”

Gan took a second to realize she was talking to _him_. The way Flora spoke, with her mischief and cheer, brought another face to his mind: A shriveled old woman who wove fruit baskets down the road. He would need to buy from her now that he had coin, before she retired for winter.

Another thought distracted him. He looked to Marion, who was already flicking through dyed fabrics. Five or six years. Time spent without aging. Gan wondered how many friends he’d had to cycle through. Was he the first human to know what Marion was? Er—The first to survive knowing, anyway. Was he the first Marion would get to keep around for longer periods of time?

 “You may have a seat, Ganymede. Just take a moment to flip through the catalogue there and pick out a nice design, hm?”

Gan shambled over, brows drawn taut. This golden-eyed vampire. Eccentric. Spoiled. Oddly possessive. Someone who had seen something in Gan that made him worth keeping around. Certainly, he wouldn’t go through all this trouble just for a free meal now and then. Perhaps… Gan studied Marion’s face, the delighted smile and little gasps he made when he found a design he liked. Perhaps Marion was having _fun?_ And maybe… Gan frowned. Maybe this golden man was _lonely_.

Even if it wasn’t true, even if Marion Gavotte was an emotionless, blood-sucking wretch whose humanity had been abandoned long ago—Gan wanted it to be true. Lonely. He could understand lonely. Living with this man would be easier if they had even just one commonality. And if this was fun for him, well, Gan appreciated it more than being stalked through city streets and evicted from his home, at least. He could buy into a little fun for a lonesome vampire, just for now.

“Uh. Marion.” Gan hesitated before grabbing two clothing patterns at random. “Help me…decide between these two.”

Marion looked over, eyes flashing, and clicked his tongue. “Really now, Ganymede, I expected better taste from an artist like yourself. Neither of those will do. The waist is taken too far in on the first, and the second would make you look like a bloated pumpkin.” He tossed three fabric samples down on Gan’s lap and thrust a hand toward him. “Trade.”

Marion wiggled his fingers, impatient, until Gan handed over the pattern book. Then Gan turned his attention to the fabrics on his lap. Three slightly different shades of blue. To most people, they might appear identical. As a painter, he differentiated between them with ease. He held up the darkest one. “I like this one. You going to disagree?”

Marion considered his choice with a critical eye. He plucked the fabric from Gan’s fingers with a thoughtful hum. At last, he broke into a smile. “That would have been my first choice. What a skilled eye you have for color, if nothing else.” His eyes twinkled in a way that wasn’t condescending or cruel. Gan didn’t mind that expression. He watched as Marion handed the design catalogue and color sample to Flora.

“Flora, _chér,_ I’ll allow a bit of creative freedom with this one. I want splashes of something to make his eyes pop, but nothing too dramatic or it’ll wash him out. He clearly doesn’t paint many summer day scenes, pale as he is. Ah, and Ganymede? I’d like you to pick out something from the shelves. A hat or gloves or scarf. This outfit will take some time to complete, and I’d hate for you to walk out of here empty-handed. And Flora! While he does that, I have a few more designs in mind for this one.” Marion drew a few neatly pressed sheets of parchment from inside his coat. “Original designs. If it wouldn’t be a bother.”

Gan left the friends’ chatter behind to roam the store. His eyes traveled over shelves overstuffed with garments. His shoulders grazed the shelving on either side, too broad for the narrow aisles. Upon turning the corner, he spotted the end of a scarf trailing down to the floor. He reached to tuck it back into place, but the design caught him. The fabric was sleek and grey on top, fuzzy and white underneath. The neutral tones reminded him of winter, but not of the emotional lows that came with it. Instead, he thought of things he’d never experienced: Snowball fights, frozen walks with a lover, sharing hot cocoa on a balcony, and a stolen kiss beneath the mistletoe. His heart panged, then he came back to reality and scolded himself for the fantasy. He tugged the scarf into his hands anyway. He’d need something to cover the bite marks, after all.

“This,” he said, presenting his choice. “I want this one.”

Marion finished finalizing his plans with Flora, turned his eyes to the scarf, and smiled faintly. Something about the environment softened things the longer they stayed. “Then you shall have it.” Marion hopped out of his seat and retrieved his coin purse. “Add some gloves to the tab if you don’t mind, Flora, _chér_. For both of us. Autumn will be ending soon.”

“That blasted cold better not keep you from visiting, Mister Marion Gavotte,” Flora said, shaking a finger. She moved behind her desk, stood up on a box, and collected Marion’s pay. “You come back in two weeks’ time and Flora will have your treats for you.”

“Please, doll, take your time.

“I certainly will not! That boy will freeze if he doesn’t get these coats on his shoulders soon. I’d toss him one in the meantime, but he’s a resilient type. A couple more weeks of autumn’s bite will keep him tough.”

Marion laughed, indicating his own jacket. “And me?”

“You’re tough as a flower, Marion Gavotte,” Flora exclaimed. Gan would have believed it, if he hadn’t felt the supernatural strength in that man’s grip. He turned to the door.

“And twice as pretty!” Marion blew a kiss and swept toward the exit. Gan stepped aside for him to pass. The bell rang again, and Gan thought he might be able associate bell-ringing with fairly pleasant feelings from here out. He felt warm suddenly, despite the draft sneaking in from outdoors. “Are you coming, Ganymede?”

“Thank you,” Gan murmured to Flora, and then ducked out into frigid air. He still had no coat, but the scarf warmed him through. He toyed with the end of it, listening to Marion’s laughter pitter off into muted footsteps. “What now?”

“You chose a scarf of woven winter.” Gan turned to see Marion’s wistful smile. He looked to be in a trance, eyes veiled by memory. A monologue sounded as though from a dream. “And what is winter, living on the streets? Frostbitten fingers and damp blankets. Less money, because all the usual donors are shut inside with their fires and children and warm soup. Less shelter, because all the rest of the homeless vagabonds decide to escape the chill in the taverns you originally sought refuge in yourself.” He breathed a laugh that dissipated in a stream of mist. “But winter is also the time to snuggle close with big, warm hounds. The time when holiday spirit grips the city, and the few donations you do receive are generous. And now, winter is a safe time of year. The days are shorter, the nights long and dark… Nothing like the harsh inferno that is summer!”

Marion tilted his face toward a moonlit sky. His skin glowed beneath its beams, his eyes reflecting that pale splendor. Now, he was no longer the golden man, but a silver one. When he spoke next, his voice lost some of its bravado. He sounded sincere. “Ah… So, winter is bittersweet.”

Gan watched him a moment longer than necessary. He was glad Marion didn’t watch him back, or else he might have seen Gan’s smile. “Do you have any more pages of that script handy, or is this a work in progress?”

Marion cocked his head. “Did you like it? I suppose my acting isn’t as _shitty_ as my piano playing, then.”

“Oh. No. It’s worse.” Gan snorted at Marion’s surprised exclamation. He didn’t give him time for a rebuttal. “I can take care of the food shopping. Most of the vendors don’t open until sunrise so, unless you wanna turn to dust and ashes or something…”

Marion rolled his eyes. Gan didn’t miss the way his hand tucked under his shirt. “You’ve had enough of my company, very well.” He fished through a pocket with his free hand and tossed Gan his purse. “Try not to spend more than is necessary. Warren’s confined me to a weekly budget.”

“You really don’t make your own money?”

“Neither do you now, as it turns out.” Marion arched a brow, just as Gan turned away from him. “Well, until we start selling those paintings of yours for a proper price. Perhaps then I’ll start selling my musical compositions and we can both run away to a new mansion without Warren’s iron authority looming over us. Would you like that?”

“No,” Gan said, without hesitation. He shook the coin purse. “Seriously, though. I’ve got this. Go home. I’ll see you after I eat. I’m starving.”

Marion muttered something in French, then his eyes narrowed slightly. “And you wouldn’t happen to be planning a solo runaway, would you? I promise you, the coin in that purse is not enough to see you through a month, and it certainly isn’t enough to buy you passage on a ship. Which is what you’d _need_ if you tried to escape me because, if you haven’t forgotten, I am more than capable of finding you wherever—”

“Haven’t forgotten.” Gan walked ahead. “I’m going now. I said it already: I’ll be back once I eat. Don’t be paranoid.”

Marion Gavotte could be paranoid next week, Gan thought, or the week after that. He might decide to leave then. He might steal enough coin for a one-way ferry ride and never return some other time. Tonight, though, he had plans close to home. Now where, he wondered, would he have the best view of the sunrise?

*

Gan had a few promising locations mapped out by the time the sun did rise. He could settle on the bridge, let the light flicker over ancient masonry. Perhaps he’d sit near the river, watch as fire and water rippled in a brilliant blend of the elements. Maybe he’d choose the forest, and paint the tree line silhouetted like a parade of obsidian soldiers. He weighed the benefits of each spot all the way to the bakery.

The scent of fresh bread lured Gan inside. A familiar voice froze him in place. _No_. His heart stopped at the same time his feet did. Customers muttered their displeasure as they dodged around where he stood rooted in the doorway.

“Sir, my father negotiated a price with you in his letters. I’m standing by the terms he set.”

 _No_. He thought his memory must have distorted that voice some; for almost a year, he’d heard it only in fantasies. But no, _no_. The words drifting toward him on a warm, spiced breeze were painful souvenirs from his past. He couldn’t have imagined them clearer.

“Sir, I will not leave this establishment until the promised amount is placed in my hand.”

Gan nearly left, but made his decision just an instant too late. Red hair flew as the boy turned, and Gan swore his entire head was aflame. Then green eyes settled on his, and he found himself consumed by that fire.

“ _Gan!_ Gan Reid. Hell, it’s been awhile.”

Sick with ache, all Gan could think to do was draw out his syllables, mocking the accent of the Irish boy before him. “Bin ahoowhile?”

Liam Walsh flashed a smile that dropped the bottom out of Gan’s chest. “Yes. Awhile. It’s good to see you, bloke. Life treatin’ you decent?”

_Last time I saw you was in a nightmare. And before that…_

Gan touched his lips without thinking. He pretended to pick at dry skin. “I’m alive.”

“Well, you got a fresh cut and your clothes are clean, which I s’pose is all we can ask for these days.” Liam leaned against the counter. The baker clicked his tongue before turning to treat other customers. Liam waved him off with a scoff. “Pah! I’m staging a stand-in here, Gan. Fella’s a crook. You’re not buying from him, are ya?”

 _Do you remember?_ Gan wanted to ask. _Do remember how I tried to kiss you, and are you just pretending not to? Is standing here in front of me as mortifying for you as it is for me? Or do I not matter to you nearly as much, and you already forgot all of that?_ He wouldn’t have been satisfied with any answer, he realized, so he asked another question instead.

“How long will you be here for?”

It sounded too much like, _How long will you be gone for?_ To which the only answer had been, _Y’know I’d stay if I could._ And then a failed kiss, a tattered friendship, a night spent marinating in misery. Gan winced.

“Oi, I’m stationed in Britain for the next year or so. Gonna be floating between England, Wales, heading back home. The works. Got a little inn here in the city to throw my shit in for the time being. I’ll be in London for the next decade if this fucker doesn’t give me his promised pay, though.” Liam gestured to the baker, who scowled and slammed some coins down on the counter. Liam scooped them into a palm, counted them, and laughed gleefully.

“Do you need any help?” Gan asked, too quietly. He cleared his throat. “With deliveries, or…?”

“You haven’t slept, have you?” Liam squinted at him and dropped his coins in a pocket. “I’m running on eight hours. I’ve got enough energy in me to do double the duties I have scheduled. You, though? You look ready to faint. You get some food, get some rest, and then we’ll talk about catching up, huh?”

“Oh.” Gan swallowed. This was Liam’s polite way of telling him to leave. Of letting him know that he _did_ remember him, and he didn’t want to see him again, and Gan should just _hit the road already_. “Okay.”

Liam caught the end of his scarf before he could turn. “You right in the head, Gan?” The boy smiled again, and Gan noticed that little gap between his teeth. The crinkles in his eyes that looked too sincere to be cruel. “Why don’t I walk you home, yeah?”

Then it was Gan’s turn to catch Liam, because he was already walking toward the exit, and Gan couldn’t lead him to the lair of a vampire. In all likelihood, Liam still thought he lived with his parents. “Where are _you_ staying? If you’re really not running off again out of nowhere, you can give me an address.”

Liam must have found a joke even in Gan’s gravity because his crooked grin returned. “I’m holed up at the Charing Grand for now. Usually finish deliveries by sunset each day, so I try to be asleep ‘fore the stars come out. Tell you what, though? You really want to help me with deliveries, I’ve got a mighty big order this time next week. I was ready to pull an all-nighter getting everything hauled in but, if you’ve got nothing else going on—”

“I’ll do it.” Gan paused. His eagerness startled himself first, then Liam. He cracked a small smile when Liam laughed over it.

“Never seen someone so enthusiastic about work!” His smile turned sly when he leaned in. “I knew I liked you, Gan.”

“Yeah.” Gan forced a breathless laugh. He shifted back a step. Liam noticed and did the same, frowning. That frown was enough to make Gan want to write another letter already. _I’m sorry_. _I’m sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, and for trying to kiss you when you never liked me or any other boy the way I do, and I’m sorry for making you see my face again after you’d finally forgotten about me, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ Gan blinked. “What were you doing now?”

“Me? I’m heading to my next station.” Liam patted his pocket, face brightened by the metallic clang of money. “You? Are grabbing a loaf of that bread and shoving your face under a pillow for the next nine hours. I mean it, bucko. I swear I never heard of you sleeping the whole time I knew you.”

“I don’t think anyone could sleep with someone as loud as you around,” Gan cracked. His spirits lifted a bit when Liam laughed his high, raucous laugh. Heads turned around them, but Gan hardly noticed. He raised a shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Don’t leave me too long, mate. I’ll miss you sorely.” Liam gave a salute on his way out the door. Gan strode up to the counter, then turned before the door swung shut.

“Charing Grand?” he asked.

“Charing Grand,” Liam confirmed. He caught the door to call back inside. “Off of Savoy.”

Gan nodded and turned back to the baker. The door shut. The rest of the world returned to him. Customers chatted nearby, an oven roared, Gan’s nails dug at his scarf. He didn’t bother stopping for fish or fruit, and he nearly mangled his bread on the way home.

When he returned, he started mixing paints not for the fire of a sunrise, but for the flame captured in Liam Walsh’s hair. _Red_. _Like fire._ He glanced at his ring, and the punctured scars on his wrist. _Fire and blood and rubies, too._

He painted until he couldn’t anymore.


	11. Relapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly just a roast fest (pun intended - you'll see what I mean). We're also starting to see more of Mari and his Baggage™ shine through, so I hope you all are as excited as I am. There's also a bit of French in this chapter, so I've added some translations at the bottom. Find me on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/drewyth/?hl=en) and [Tumblr](drewyth.tumblr.com), and, as always, I always love to hear your feedback! Enjoy.

Ganymede Reid truly was daft.

Talented, complex, and intriguing, yes. But his foolishness outweighed all the rest. Just how the human had convinced himself Warren was a _friend_ to him, Marion didn’t know. Admittedly, it had taken Marion a moment to realize Warren’s intentions in moving the boy to the basement, but at least he’d figured it out. _Gan_ still believed he’d been relocated simply because he’d asked. He thought Warren was kind, generous, charming perhaps.

Marion knew better.

Down in the basement, Gan’s exposure to sunlight would be limited. His internal clock would not register dawn as waking hours, because he would not see dawn. On the other hand, dusk would stir the other inhabitants of the house and give Gan a reason to rise as well. Eventually, Marion knew the plan to be, Gan’s sleep schedule would fall in line with Marion’s own. This would make it easier for him to supervise his human. _Human_ , of course, was treated by Warren as a slur. _Humans_ were not pleasant creatures, to be or to keep. Marion thought back to the conversation he and Warren had shared outside of the washroom.

_“Control your cattle, Marion. Before I have to.”_

Marion sighed. That really hadn’t been very nice at all. Gan didn’t see that, though. God forbid he recognize his _true_ ally, instead of chasing after the approval of a callous, condescending creep. Marion had tried to earn Warren’s approval once. Then, after a couple good decades, he stopped trying. He wondered how long Gan would waste his energy attempting the same. In the meantime, Marion resigned himself to descending three flights of stairs every evening just to wake the poor fool.

“Ganymede!” Marion didn’t bother knocking. This was his home, after all, and the _human_ was only a chew toy he stored in the basement. That was how Warren wanted him to think of it, he was sure. He flung open the door without further announcement. “Gany—”

He stopped. Tufts of brown hair silhouetted Gan’s pillow. A youthful flush pooled pink in his cheeks, wherever they weren’t hidden by his scarf. He hadn’t taken it off, Marion noted with a smirk. Higher up, long lashes fluttered beneath twitching brows. There was a crease in Gan’s forehead, one he couldn’t be rid of even in unconsciousness, and Marion nearly snorted. He recalled his first visit to Gan’s house, pitiful shack that it was. It was the only other time he’d seen Gan like this: Peaceful, one might say _beautiful_ , like a living portrait of the angel Gabriel.

“Oh, wretched thing…” Marion whispered, only to himself. To his left, another portrait caught his eye. He arched a brow. Then, after glancing over his shoulder to make sure Warren was not there—But of _course_ wasn’t, when was Warren ever home?—he nudged the door shut and moved closer.

A redhaired boy grinned at him from the canvas. Green eyes reflected a sun that made Marion’s heart pang. _Indigestion_ , he told himself, and then laughed at his own lie because he hadn’t been plagued by such a _human_ ailment since… What had it been since he’d last eaten human food? Twenty years? Almost thirty now?

The summery scene before him reclaimed his focus. He frowned. If he leaned in close enough, he could almost feel its heat. His finger traced a half-painted flower. He imagined the petals to be soft, warm under the fictitious rays of gold. His tongue clicked when he followed the stem down to the edge of the easel. Bottles of paint cluttered the space there. All of them were left open. Marion moved to cap one. A voice stopped him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He perked up. The _accusation_ in that tone grated at his nerves. He snatched up the bottle of paint and grinned at his company. Any warmth the portrait had granted him dissipated. “Ganymede. You’re finally awake. You’ve been sleeping rather late for a human. I was concerned.”

Brown eyes flicked from Marion’s face, to the bottle clutched in his hand. Gan sat up straight, legs hanging over the side of his bed, and suspicion turned his muscles to stone. He rucked up the blankets between his fingers. “Get away from my stuff. Don’t touch that.”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Marion asked with exaggerated innocence. A wry smile quirked the corner of his lips. “I’m not going to ruin the damn thing. I know I don’t respect many things in this life, Ganymede, but quality art is one of them.”

Gan stood anyway, deepening the crease in his brow. He edged forward with a sour expression. Marion laughed, the sound barbed with irritation. Could he not be trusted, even after they’d shared such a benevolent night out? He dipped his thumb into the lip of the bottle, and it came away blue.

“Are you worried I’ll do something like this?” Marion showed off his freshly painted finger, then moved it toward the canvas. Gan moved quicker.

“Knock that shit _off_.” Gan stumbled into him, his movements lethargic and clumsy. He wrenched the canvas off its easel, nearly tripped, and caught his balance with a grimace. Marion laughed again at the performance.

“Oh, bravo!” He almost clapped, then gasped when he ‘remembered’ the paint on his hand. “Ah. What a mess.”

He pressed his thumb to Gan’s cheek, smearing paint. Gan recoiled, eyes sharp despite the fatigue that glazed them. He clutched his portrait tighter to his chest. Marion’s grin widened.

“I must say, I _like_ that look on you. It reminds me of when we first met. Or don’t you remember?” He reached to touch the cerulean streak on Gan’s skin. Gan didn’t let him. He hummed, disappointed, and dipped the rest of his fingers into the bottle instead. “And just who is the lovely model you’ve chosen for your portrait? It certainly isn’t the sun, which is what I _commissioned_ you to paint.”

“None of your business,” Gan snapped, and he moved to prop the portrait against his wall.

“Wrong.” Marion flicked the paint from his hand onto Gan’s face. It dappled his skin in a disorganized spray. Gan flinched, blinked, then his lip curled in a way that was positively _endearing_. “I’ll have you know, everything that happens beneath this roof is my business. I don’t pay for your water and rent so that you can keep secrets from me. Oh, and _look_ at those extra freckles you’ve got now. I think we should add some warmer colors to the mix, no?”

He reached for a jar of pink. Gan’s hand closed around it first. Marion hooked his fingers into the mouth of the bottle. He pulled one way, Gan pulled the other, and then paint was splashing over the floorboards, pooling between Marion’s toes. He gasped, raised his foot, and laughed at the pastel river glistening below.

“Are you done?” Gan asked, tone flat. He dropped the near-empty bottle of paint and it landed with a wet thud. His jaw tightened. Then, he pulled his scarf up for examination. “Great. You got paint on my new, white scarf that you _just_ bought for me yesterday. And my floor is ruined. And you wasted my paint. See anything else you want to fuck up before breakfast?”

“You…do know you can bathe more than once a month, don’t you? An easy solution to your paint troubles, I think. Also, you would be _amazed_ by the wonders a mop can perform. Same goes for a washboard. And do you want to know a secret?” Marion leaned in, even as Gan leaned away. He laughed. “Coins can be exchanged for goods. Fresh paint bottles, for instance. That’s sort of _precisely_ what money is for, actually. Honestly, Ganymede, you’re an accomplished artist but problem-solving is _not_ your strong suit.”

“Okay, and not being a complete jackass isn’t yours.” Gan looked again at the paint underfoot and snorted. “This is my room. You agreed, if I came to stay here, you’d give me a room with a lock on the door. You couldn’t take that as a hint that, hey, maybe I don’t want you intruding on my life?”

“You never locked your door. It isn’t as though I forced it open.” Marion drew his foot over the floor, painting a pink arc across the wood. “Anyway, I’ve come to you with an invitation.”

“Not interested.”

“You don’t even know where—”

“Are you taking me to pick up new paints, now that you fucked up my old ones?”

Marion scoffed. “I spilled _one_ bottle. Really, it was both of us. If you hadn’t been tugging… What’s more, you left all of your paint open. They would have dried out, had I not—”

Just then, a shadow darted through the darkness. Marion yelped. He staggered back, braced himself against the wall. His heart leapt and he swallowed it down with a hiss.

“Gan, what _was_ that?” His voice didn’t break. It was just a trick of the ear. He was perfectly calm, he told himself, and uncurled his fingers from the wall to prove it. He sucked down a breath before repeating the same demand. “What was that?”

Gan stared at him a moment. He appeared dumbfounded—Or just plain dumb, by Marion’s standards. His eyes flicked to the floor, where the shadow lurked at the edge of the bed. He knelt, held his hand out to that figure, and Marion’s blood prickled.

“ _What_ are you doing?” he seethed, recoiling closer against the wall. “It came in from the window. A monster. You’ll lose your arm. You—”

A low growl interrupted him. Marion grit his teeth against that dreadful noise. The beast was slinking over, closer to Gan, and from its throat… No. Not a growl. That faceless demon was _purring_. Then, its jaws yawned open on a gaping— _Meow._

Marion tossed his hands up in outrage. “That! That thing! I told you I did not want it in my house. This is why!” One of his palms pressed flat to the front of his chest. A frantic thud rattled his ribs. His teeth bared as he willed it to calm. “Your creature nearly killed me.”

“What the hell are you…?” Gan trailed off. His breath stuttered on something that could have been a laugh when the cat’s head nudged into his palm. He stroked its ears. Laughed harder. “Belle did not almost _kill_ you. Believe me, if I could train her to do something like that… Never mind.” Gan straightened. He turned his full attention on Marion, there in that dim chamber, and Marion felt his shoulders hunch. He peeled away from the wall as Gan continued. “What, are you seriously afraid of little cats?”

A laugh burst from Marion’s lips. It was a small thing at first, then it grew louder, shaking his body with the force of its mirth. He doubled over in his fit of humor and shook his head.

“Oh… Oh, _Ganymede_. There are so many things to fear in the dark.” He drew upright suddenly, and his laughter died. His gaze turned flat. He was satisfied to see Gan wince under that expression. “You should know, shouldn’t you? You became very…intimately familiar with one of those things just the other night.”

Gan glared back at him. Marion saw his throat bob once; that was his only sign of apprehension, but Marion savored it. His words, though, were less favorable. “You screamed. Because my cat came inside.”

“I did _not_ scream.” Marion’s composure crumpled once more. He whirled away to search for the cat. “Damned thing must have hidden from me. _Come out_. I’ll show that cursed animal _I’m_ the thing to be feared in this house. Ganymede! Bring the rat to me.”

Gan knelt again. Marion was surprised, pleasantly so. He stopped to watch, waiting for the boy to drag that wretched feline out of hiding and haul it outside where it belonged.

Instead, Gan started mopping up the puddle of paint on his floor. Using his _scarf_.

“That is not—You are useless. And ungrateful.” Marion collapsed into a chair in the corner. A plume of dust erupted into the air and he coughed, waving it away. “This really is just your kind of place, isn’t it? Ah… Well, my blood is pumping far too fiercely now. I imagine I’ll need a drink soon.”

Gan’s eyes cut to his. One hand fisted into his scarf, which was no longer white. The other clamped over the side of his neck. “Don’t think about it.”

“Now, Ganymede, we have an agreement…”

“Don’t.” Gan straightened again. “I mean it. Whatever you did to me yesterday, that was _not_ alright. I don’t want you in my head. I already said I’d give you blood, and what? That’s not good enough for you? You need to—fuckin’ _hypnotize_ me, or else you’re not satisfied?”

Marion stared. The heat in Gan’s voice caught him off guard. Then, he did the only thing he could think to, and laughed.

“You are so sensitive.” He stepped forward, turning a rush of thoughts over in his mind. Warren. How would _Warren_ want him to respond? Not that it mattered, of course, but, if he wanted to appear powerful… Warren was good at that, at least. It couldn’t hurt to follow that one example.

“You haven’t forgotten that I _own_ you, have you? You’re not an equal here, Ganymede. There is a clear hierarchy. You’re a meal, see? Something to nibble on when I get bored. And you do what I want, or you die.” He paused, appraising Ganymede with a look. “Ah… I think you’ve gotten too comfortable with me. I’m flattered you consider me a friend these days, but don’t let it make you foolhardy.”

Gan glared back at him. His hand hadn’t moved from his neck. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He swallowed. This time, Marion got the impression that he was not feeling apprehensive; rather, he was gulping down words that would be unwise to say.

“You said,” Gan began slowly. It was obvious he was forcing his voice to stay steady. “You wanted to go somewhere tonight. Right?”

Marion searched his face. There was a catch to whatever Gan was saying, Marion could feel it, so he tucked his hand against his own throat and answered cautiously. “Correct.”

“This,” Gan gestured between them, “is not how you make friends who want to do things with you.”

Marion’s eyebrows tugged upwards. Then, his eyes narrowed into gilded slits. A sharp smile broke on his lips. “Are you _scolding_ me?”

Gan’s expression was one Marion was starting to grow familiar with. His eyes were guarded, but something melancholic lurked in their depths. His bottom lip pouted, just a bit, and he stood too stiffly. Marion had a sense that Gan was trying hard to appear firm and collected, but his resolve was a brittle thing.

“This isn’t how you make me want to be your friend.” He was even quieter this time. The edges of his words felt jagged. Marion considered them with a frown. He shifted his weight to his other leg, settled a hand on his hip, and listened to the steady splash of paint dripping off the easel.

“Who’s the model in that portrait, Ganymede?” Marion pointed at it.

“Stop.”

Marion laughed. “You said that’s not how to make friends, so I’m trying to connect to you. Ask about your passions. Is it a friend of yours? Oh! A lover?”

“You’re not trying to talk to me. You’re _mocking_ me, and I’m starting to get sick of it.” Gan rubbed at sleep-riddled eyes and sat on the edge of his bed again. He looked at the paint on his floor with a sigh. He had to shoo the cat away when she went to lap it up. “Look. Can you just…”

“ _You_ won’t make friends either, with all those secrets of yours,” Marion shot back. “You’re expecting a lot from someone you don’t even trust to—”

“Liam.” Gan snorted. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “His name’s Liam. Just someone I knew once. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Oh?” Marion watched Gan stand and move to his dresser. “An old flame?”

“No.” Gan’s denial was firm. He wasted no time stripping off his shirt, and Marion fell silent. Lean muscle shifted beneath Gan’s skin, and dimples showed in broad shoulders. There were even freckles there. Marion set to counting them.

“Are you staring at me?”

Marion glanced at his nails, assuming a bored expression. “No. Actually, yes. I was wondering if you might be broader than you are tall. I suppose it wouldn’t be hard.”

Gan grunted in annoyance. He pulled on a worn, grey button-up and plain black trousers. “You said you wanted to go somewhere. It’s a little cold for me to be running around in my underwear. Are you getting ready or what?”

“You’ll come with?” Marion failed to keep the wonder from his voice. He shrugged and leaned against the door. “Splendid. Because I really would rather not have to charm you into doing _that_ too.”

“Yeah.” Gan tugged a sweater over his head before smoothing down his wayward curls. His voice hardened. “Me too.”

Marion frowned. “You really took that to heart, didn’t you _chéri?_ ”

“I don’t like that you can get in my head and make me do things I don’t _want_ to do, and that it doesn’t matter if I say no because, at any point, you can just… _change my mind_. I hate that. Yeah. I hate that a lot.” Gan turned to face him fully. With his hair a mess and his layers of winter apparel, he looked younger. Like a boy standing up to an unjust authority. Marion clicked his tongue. His expression softened.

“ _Mon coeur,_ ” he tsked. He looked over his shoulder at the closed door. Listened. Upstairs, footsteps whispered against the floorboards. So, Warren was home. And, if he wasn’t careful, he’d hear everything Marion said. And he’d _ridicule_ him. Marion sighed. “This is just the price you pay, no? You get free rent. A free home. Free food and drink and art supplies. You even get companionship, and shelter for your repulsive pet.” His eyes flicked to the cat, where she swatted at the dripping paint. “Sometimes, your will is not your own. You must accept it. Or learn to fortify your mind, and it will never happen again.”

“So, what’s the point? Of me doing or saying or feeling _anything_ if you can just change it whenever you don’t like it?”

“Oh, there are a lot of things you do that I loathe.” Marion frowned. “I’ve never tried to change those habits, have I? It’s part of our game. I can’t strip you of your whole personality, or where’s the fun? Besides—” Marion paused. The footsteps were moving toward the basement stairs. He raised his voice. “You should feel privileged I waste my time trying to train you in the first place.” His gaze flicked to the door, just as three soft knocks fell against it. “Enter, _chér_.”

Marion looked back at Gan’s face. Those brown eyes watched him, distrusting, and his shoulders rose and fell with his breaths. A satisfied little smirk settled on Marion’s lips.

“Marion.” Warren’s voice, behind him. Marion’s eyes glittered when they fell upon him.

“Warren!” He waved an arm at Gan. “I was just reminding our little human of his place.”

“I heard.” Red eyes swept from Marion’s face, to Gan’s, and then settled on the puddle of pink paint. “Why are you so cruel to him?”

Warren spoke softly, as always. Yet, given how much his words startled Marion, he would have thought he was shouting. Marion’s eyes widened.

“Wh—” His mouth froze as he fumbled for words. He straightened abruptly, crossing his arms over his chest. His face burned. “Now, wait a moment. _You_ kept telling me—”

“Will you join us for our photography session today?” Warren was looking at Gan now. Marion’s heart swelled against barbs of irritation. “We go every few years. Since you’re part of the household now, you should join the tradition.” Then, perhaps because he felt Marion’s glare like daggers on his back, or perhaps because he didn’t want the human thinking this was _his_ idea, he added, “I believe Marion wanted to ask.”

Marion snarled. He nearly spoke, but Gan shuffled, catching his attention.

“You…want me to come get my picture taken with you.” His tone was flat with disbelief. It wasn’t the same voice he used with Marion, though. There was some ounce of _courtesy_ there.

“Yes, so you better put on something more fitting. In fact, I think _Warren_ has some clothes he could share, since you two get on so well.” Marion flashed a bright smile at Warren. If he wanted to interfere so badly, he shouldn’t mind.

Warren just shook his head. “It’s clear Gan exercises often. My clothes will be too tight.”

“Mine will be too _long_ ,” Marion protested, before Warren could make the suggestion.

“Why don’t you wait until I have those new clothes you just spent a shit ton of money on?” Gan demanded of Marion, as though Marion had said something offensive.

“Oh! That would be a spectacular idea! But _Gan_? The photoshoot is scheduled for _tonight_. I’ve had it planned for days, there’s a significant cancellation fee, and you wouldn’t wear your new clothes _anyway_ , since you insist on looking like you crawled out of a sewer all hours of the day!” Marion almost said more, stopped, then waved Gan away and turned away. “I am going to get ready. I assume you’ll look the same when I return, but I do hope you’ll at least _try_ to tame that beast on your head.” He stormed from the room.

“I don’t have to go.” Gan’s voice followed him into the hall. Marion turned to swing his head back into the doorway.

“You have to go,” he snapped. His sharp smile returned. “I command it.”

And even though Marion didn’t use his charm, didn’t even try, Gan winced away. He scowled immediately after. “I’ll get ready. Just leave me alone.” Gan took a step forward. His foot landed with a wet slap and he shouted. “God— _dammit_. And find me something to clean this shit up.” Gan turned his back, grumbling all the while.

“Yes, yes, mumble and groan. It’s your fault the bloody—Warren. Help me find proper cleaning supplies.”

Marion didn’t wait. He strode back into the hall, headed for the stairs. It was when he felt a chill at his back that he knew Warren was near. Marion sneered.

“What,” Marion asked, “was _that_ little display? Honestly, you tell me to discipline the boy, take control of him, and then you waltz in to undermine me. I’m soft if I treat him kindly, but I’m damned if I follow your advice. _Your_ advice! You told me what to do, and I did it, and you still went against me. Tell me, what is your intention with that?”

Marion snapped his head around to study Warren’s face. Warren stepped around him fluidly, his face impassive. Marion shuddered. Anger rose in him, flushed his skin with warmth, and he felt like fire blazing beside a block of ice.

“It doesn’t work,” Warren said, eyes forward, “if the human knows it’s being treated poorly. Do better, Marion.” He walked a few yards ahead, then paused without looking back. “And find the human some clothes. Its portrait won’t go on my wall if it looks disorderly.”

Marion watched Warren depart. Before he turned the corner, Marion called, “ _I,_ for one, think his outfit is lovely. He has a talent, Warren. Not looking so _stuffy_. That’s a lesson you could stand to learn—Oh god damn you.” Marion set off in his own direction.

He ended up, naked, in front of a floor-length looking glass. His fingers drifted over the hollow of his throat. He repeated that movement, tracing the hideous pink scars that marred his complexion. They crisscrossed over his neck, spiraling down his right shoulder like some hellish calligraphy. The burns dominated half his body: His ribs, his hip, his right arm and the back of his hand. The ruffles of his sleeves covered them, mostly. When Marion turned around, he saw again how they crept along his spine, stopping only once they reached the small of his back. They were everywhere, raised, and red, and angry, and Gan had _seen_ them. Only a peek. But he’d seen them all the same.

Marion sighed. Even when he shrugged on his shirt, he could still see the scars through the sheer white fabric. It wasn’t how they _looked_ that bothered him so much as what they _meant_. He turned away from the mirror. Best not to travel down that road. Not now.

His thoughts returned, instead, to Ganymede Reid. He’d tried being nice when they first met. Nice _enough_ , anyhow. It wasn’t well received. He tried exercising control, and it made the boy _hate_ him. Not even fear him, just detest him with a passion only mortals could manage. What’s more, Warren felt he was doing it _wrong_. So why did he bother?

“Oh, you really don’t have a friend in the world, do you, you perfect fool?” He watched himself from behind thick lashes. _Beautiful_ , like everyone always said, but beauty was hardly enough to sustain him. He rolled his eyes and continued dressing in the empty room.

When he was done, a long purple tailcoat cinched at his waist. Beneath that, a lavender vest clung to his figure, embellished with blossoming flora. He would have preferred his golden one, but he’d lost that to a bartender what felt like ages ago. He snorted as he pulled on cream-colored pants and boots that came to his knees.

It was while he was tying his cravat that a presence at his door caught his attention. His eyes flicked to the reflection in the mirror and he motioned Gan in without much interest.

“Yes, what do you want?”

Gan stayed where he was. “Just came to say I cleaned up the paint and I’m ready to go. Wanted to see if I look up to your standards.”

Marion finished adjusting the ruffles at his throat. Then, he ran a finger over the gloss on his lips and turned to Gan with a smirk. It burst into a laugh the moment he saw him. Gan wore the same clothes as before, but his _hair_.

“Oh, darling.” Marion clicked his tongue between chuckles. He came forward, sweeping a hand over Gan’s forehead. He could actually _see_ it, because Gan trained his hair back with some thick gel. Still, stray strands curled around his ears and twisted at the base of his neck. Marion had to admire his effort. He looked at him with gentle eyes. “Ganymede… How do I say this? Ah… You look ridiculous.”

“Fucking—hell.” Gan reached up to muss up his hair again, but Marion caught his hand.

“Oh, no! It’s far too late now. We’ll be tardy to our shoot.”

“That’s your fault. I’ve been ready for an hour. Just fucking…wanted to try—You said you _wanted_ it out of my face.” Gan flushed, and Marion could perfectly see how it highlighted his freckles, without his hair in the way.

“Out of your face, yes, but you look like a boy whose father is taking him in to work, and he is just _so_ proud he decides to wake up early and fix his hair, and—Oh, Ganymede? Did Daddy George ever bring you in to play businessman like that? Is that where you learned this technique?” He coiled a strand of brown hair around his finger before Gan tugged back.

“No.” He avoided Marion’s gaze now and scrubbed his hands through his curls before Marion could stop him. Clumps of greased hair stood in every direction. “Forget it. Just didn’t want you bitching at me, but you did anyway, so. Really shouldn’t have been surprised.”

Marion’s breath left him in a soft exhale. “Gan, truly, you—You’re not wearing shoes?”

Gan kept his gaze somewhere over Marion’s shoulder. He shrugged, snorted. “It’s… No. I was just going to borrow some of yours. Mine are… Whatever. Anyway, since you’re already complaining about how I look, I guess it doesn’t matter if I wear—”

“I have some buckle shoes that turned out just a tad too big. You can fetch them from my closet, over there.” He waved in the direction of that door and went back to examining his reflection. Gan had tried to look nice. Failed, but tried all the same. Marion smiled to himself when he heard the rummaging in his wardrobe. “They’re in the back somewhere, I’m sure. It was for a costume. I don’t wear the ugly things. Oh. They’ll look good on you, though.”

Gan grumbled something, then raised his voice on, “How many goddamn shoes do you own?”

“An even number, I’d imagine.”

“We’re late.” Warren appeared at the doorway. His hair was tucked back into a neat, white bun. Pale brows rested over paler lashes and ashen skin. He wore a white vest and pants, with red accents sewn into the material. Crimson roses were embroidered on his lapels, and Marion knew he’d done it himself. Warren clasped gloved his hands in front of himself as he observed them. “Let’s go.”

“If we’re already late, what’s a few more minutes?” Marion rolled his eyes. “Can’t you see the boy doesn’t have shoes?”

Warren arched a brow at Gan’s bare feet. He turned without saying another word, but his intention was clear: _I’m going, and you’re either going to follow, or get left behind._ Marion swore under his breath. He looked to Gan, who had paused his search to watch Warren’s arrival, and subsequent departure.

“Well?” Marion gestured sharply and snatched his coat from the back of a chair. “You heard the man. Hurry up and find those shoes. We’ve places to be!”

He went after Warren, ignoring Gan’s mumbled curses. Gan stumbled after him not long after. From the irregular thud of his footsteps, Marion figured he was trying to pull on his shoes at the same time he tried to walk.

“Faster, Ganymede,” Marion sang over his shoulder. “I know it’s difficult for your short little legs, but some of us have reputations of _punctuality_ to uphold.”

“We’re already late. Like you said,” Gan hissed, and cursed again when he stumbled. “I’m coming. Fuck.”

As always, the silvery glow of night animated Marion. He swept along at Warren’s side with theatrical grace and listened as Gan trailed behind them. He laughed at nothing in particular and linked arms with his pale-haired companion.

“This is our first trip out together, all three of us,” Marion observed. He reached his other arm behind him, spreading his fingers before closing them blindly around a bunch of fabric.

“Hey—”

Marion pulled Gan up beside him and took his arm too. “Look at us. Don’t we make an enviable picture? Oh, even royalty couldn’t compare to our elegance.” He glanced at Gan and made a noise. “Well, two-thirds of our elegance, anyway.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Marion waltzed along, pleased by the company on either side of him. Warren matched his pace with that same graceful stride. He had decades of familiarity with it. Gan, on the other hand, dragged his feet, but Marion found he just had to pull on his arm every so often to get him up to speed. The air was cool, but not icy, and the streets were lively, but not crowded. So far, it was turning out to be a night with few complaints.

After a while, though, Marion realized something. Gan was looking at him. He wasn’t blatantly staring, of course, but every so often, his eyes would flicker to Marion’s face, and his brows would twitch as though he were trying to solve a riddle. This last time, Marion turned to meet his gaze. Gan immediately looked away.

“Oh, no, too late for that now.” Marion nudged Gan’s arm, and Gan missed a step before catching himself again. “Give me your thoughts before I have to _pry_ them from you.”

Gan must have recognized that as a joke because, while he looked confused at first, his expression settled, and he sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just… Fuck it. I don’t know.”

“For the love of the Catholic Christ, will you just _say_ it? Honestly, Ganymede, you blurt so many insults and vulgarities, but the minute it comes to speaking your mind, you shell up. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m a very social creature. So? Out with it.”

“It’s just… I don’t know. You were annoyed with me an hour ago. And I’m always annoyed with you. But now you’re just…” Gan gestured helplessly to his arm in Marion’s and his shoulders hunched. He looked ahead again. “I don’t know.”

Marion crinkled his nose. Annoyed? Had he been? It seemed so trivial now. “I prefer not to dwell. Besides, I’m more annoyed at _Warren_ than anyone.” He shot Warren a look, and Warren hummed a distant acknowledgment.

Marion went on, “Truthfully, I’m just glad to have someone to spend my night with.” He shrugged, so the comment appeared frivolous. He didn’t feel like examining just how deep the truth ran. Just like he didn’t feel like examining the feelings behind his scars, or the reason he was so desperate to take charge of things. He tilted his head. “Besides, this air… It’s so fresh, isn’t it?” He inhaled deeply, and released it with a vocalized, “Ahhh. It washes away all the demons from home. Isn’t that right, Warren?”

“Hm.” Warren watched the street ahead of them.

“This is the routine!” Marion continued. “The nightlife doesn’t care for your petty domestic troubles. Once you step through the front door, all those pesky frets and worries disappear. All you need to think about is the adventure tugging at your heels. The opportunity singing you her siren’s call from high above the streetlamps!” Marion smiled up at the sky. He reached for the stars with the hand holding Gan’s, and Gan stumbled with a grunt. Marion noticed he was eyeing him, so he looked back. “Do you disagree?”

“I guess, for me, nature has a different sort of…” Gan trailed off. He watched his feet instead. “Like, when I’m in the forest, I feel like the nightlife really does care about me. It gives me time to…to think. Everything that bothered me… It’s still there. But I can sort through it. It’s nice. I don’t think… I mean, if you just ignore it—That’s stupid. Because then it festers, and it’s never really _gone_. You’re just pretending.”

Marion frowned again, at that. “It sounds like you ruminate. That’ll depress you, you know. You should keep moving forward. Or are you still feeling pissy about the paint incident?”

“What? No.” Gan’s eyes narrowed. “Well, yeah. A little. But I’m saying it because…don’t you ever feel guilty? About rude shit you say, or the careless things you do? Don’t you think about it later and, I don’t know, try to make fucking amends?”

So here was the social side of Ganymede Reid. Marion’s smile returned. He didn’t care for the subject matter, but he’d already had a much more fulfilling conversation with Gan than he’d ever had with Warren during one of their walks. He would just have to indulge him. He answered honestly.

“I’m not interested, personally. If I do something wrong—Say, spill a drink on myself and get a certain little serving boy smacked—well… That’s in the past. There’s nothing I can do about it, once it’s happened. I could apologize, but that seems such a paltry thing, doesn’t it?” Marion’s nose wrinkled. “‘I’m sorry.’ It’s meaningless. It doesn’t fix the issue, it’s just wind. Did you know there’s no word for ‘sorry’ in the French language?” Marion looked at Gan who, judging from his expression, did not believe his lie. Marion laughed. “Well, it was never said in _my_ house growing up, anyway. So, I never learned it. Not for _years_. Oh, come now. Surely, that isn’t so unbelievable?”

Gan snorted. “I’ve never heard you say it. So, I guess.”

“There are so many more _enchanting_ words, anyway. _Tu es l'amour de ma vie. Tes yeux, j'en rêve jour et nuit._ Even the numbers: _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept_ … Do you even know how to count to ten _en français_? It’s the most romantic language. Oh, _chér_ , if you don’t know the words, let me be _votre professeur_.” Marion beamed. “Come on, now. You can whisper your secrets to me in my native tongue. Wouldn’t that be _spectaculaire?_ After all, Warren says I’m very easy to talk to.”

“I said you talk enough for two,” Warren corrected. Marion scarcely noticed.

“So, Ganymede? _Serez-vous mon élève et laissez-moi être votre douce muse française?_ ”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Gan said.

Marion laughed. “Oh! Of course you don’t. But how sad. You’d think a former rich boy would have had some education training in foreign languages. Let me teach you then, _mon beau_. We will start with a simple _je t'aime_ , no?”

Gan glanced from the corner of his eye. Then, after a beat, he said, “ _Bonjour, je m'appelle_ Gan. _Comment vas-tu_? …I know that much.”

Marion frowned. “Don’t show off.”

His attention wandered, after that. He watched people trickling into the streets, wearing fur scarves and laced boots. One woman held another’s skirt as they crossed over a puddle so it wouldn’t get wet. Three children zigzagged between passersby, shoving and giggling, and Marion assumed they were running from the shouting woman with a wooden spoon in hand. He tipped his head at the young man gawking at him from the back of a carriage. Smiled at the performer juggling turnips in filthy gloved hands. Then, he turned his head and saw—A trash dump.

His right side itched, all of a sudden.

_“I’ll die. If you leave me here, I—I’ll die.”_

_“You won’t die. You’re too much of a coward.”_

Marion stopped in his tracks. His eyes caught on the piles of refuse and litter; they were nestled into the back of an alley, where the sun didn’t touch. He swallowed, even though his mouth was dry. He was scratching at his chest, didn’t even realize it until his skin began to burn with irritation. His fingers curled. He looked away and a flash of irritation cut through him. Warren only made it worse with that _look_. He appeared so knowing and… Not sympathetic—That would have been worse—but he _understood_. And Marion hated that. Mostly because _he_ didn’t even understand it. He’d been doing so well. For years, he’d…he’d done so well.

Marion felt something warm under his shirt. His nails had drawn blood. His laughter caught everyone, including himself, off guard.

“What were we talking about?” Marion grinned at Warren. Warren watched him a moment longer, then focused back ahead, and another spike of annoyance turned Marion’s blood hot. His smile sharpened on Gan instead. “Please, entertain me. My mind is drifting and it’s taking me out of the present moment. Reel me back in, Renaissance Man. Enthrall me.”

“What are you…?” Gan searched his face. Marion felt it flush under his scrutiny. Pent-up energy needled beneath his skin, all at once, like he needed to go for a run. Chase someone. Drain their blood. Kill them. His hand curled around the front of his shirt, crushing the ruffles there.

“Fine, fine, if you’ve both nothing to say, I’ll tell a story.” He curled his nails into Warren’s arm instead. Warren stiffened briefly but didn’t look his way. He knew how Marion could get. That was the worst part—Because he _hadn’t_ gotten like this, not in years, and he didn’t know what had changed to—

_“You look pathetic. Don’t move. I am going to disinfect your wounds. …Why did you hide in the filthiest place you could find?”_

Marion wrenched both arms from the men at his sides. His voice assumed a booming bravado. “Well! Let’s see, let’s see. Ah! I know. There once was a man named Tros. He was the founder of the great city of Troy, but this is not his story. No, see, Tros had a son—Three sons, actually, and a daughter, but we’re only interested in one of Tros’s children tonight. Oh, you know where this is going, don’t you, Ganymede?”

“You know where I’m going?” Gan asked, tone flat. “Home. If you continue this stupid myth, I’m going home to bury myself in the backyard.”

“Quiet yourself. Honestly. It’s a flattering tale. What is it Homer wrote? Ah, ‘the loveliest born of the race of mortals… The gods caught him away to themselves, to be Zeus’ wine-pourer, for the sake of his beauty, so he might be among the immortals.’” Marion bowed deeply, then added, “Ganymede has become a symbol of homosexual desire, don’t you know? It’s a wonder your parents named you that, only to turn around and shun you for—”

“Did you memorize that whole piece just to irritate me with it?”

“That’s a bit self-absorbed, don’t you think? Not everything I do is for your sake.” Marion smirked. “But yes, I did.”

Gan rolled his eyes. “You’re incredible.”

“ _Merci_.”

“That’s not… I was being sarcastic. Are you seriously—”

“We’re here,” Warren said, and Marion looked over. Before them, a small brick storefront boasted a sign which read, _Peter B. Cadby. Photography._ Marion skipped ahead to open the door. He wanted to keep moving; that anxious energy hadn’t stopped crackling through him. He bowed his head when Warren entered and immediately followed him in.

“Bastard,” Gan cursed when the door hit him.

The interior seemed smaller than the outside. Peter Cadby’s one-room studio was cut into a perfect square, though a disorganized clutter distorted the shape. Against one wall, painted backdrops filled the space from floor to ceiling. Those canvases captured Gan’s attention now. _Naturally_. Multiple hunks of machinery stood around the room. They were foreign objects, imposing as they were mystifying. Marion stepped close to admire one. He nearly touched it before Warren cleared his throat. Then, he only wanted to touch it _more_. He didn’t, though.

“The first photograph was captured by a Frenchman, you know,” Marion said, as proud as if he had accomplished the feat himself. “Joseph Nicéphore Niépce. Rest his soul. Oh, Petey!”

“Peter will do.”

A thin gentleman with grim lines set around his mouth emerged from behind a desk. He was mostly bald, with a few strands of grey combed across his scalp. Sallow skin and hollow cheeks made him look like half a corpse. Actually, Marion had seen more attractive corpses. Even so, he was familiar with Peter’s work; the man had a quiet passion, and that was admirable in its own right.

“Marion and company, I presume.” Peter’s lips were so thin, it was difficult to tell when he smiled. The expression showed in his eyes more than anything. He laced bony fingers together in front of himself. “It is a pleasure.”

“A privilege on our part,” Marion insisted with a bow. Gan snorted behind him and he waved the boy away, straightening with a smile. “I have seen your work displayed in quite a few galleries, _monsieur_. That is why, when it came time to choose a new photographer, I knew it had to be you. Warren came to me and I said to him, ‘Warren,’ I said, ‘It has to be Pete Cadbury. The man is a visionary.’”

That pale smile returned. Peter nodded. “Thank you for your kindness. May I familiarize you with the equipment we’ll be using?”

“Please do.” Marion trailed after Peter, watching the practiced movements with which the man handled his gear. “You know, my friend Ganymede is an artist himself.”

“Is he?” Peter asked without looking up from the camera he’d been displaying.

“Oh, yes.” Marion shot a smile in Gan’s direction, even as Gan shrank into the background.

“Different kind of artist.” Gan crossed his arms, gravitating back toward the entrance.

“He paints,” Marion explained. “He was mesmerized by your backdrops there. Did you see the way he stared? I think he might envy them.”

“I don’t…” Gan stopped himself. He looked to Warren instead and started a conversation too quiet to hear. Marion arched a brow but kept on.

“Really, I would have thought those were photographs themselves, the scenes are so lively.”

“My son paints them. He’s blind in one eye, nearly the same in the other, but you wouldn’t know it from his art.”

Marion gasped. “No, you wouldn’t. My, that is inspiring. Truly the Beethoven of the painting world.”

“I suppose.” Peter offered a kind, but reserved, look. “He would thank you for the compliment. Are you satisfied with the tools we’ll be using?”

“ _Mon ami_ ,” Marion grinned and took the man’s hand. It was cold to touch. “You could have shown me a carrot and I would have trusted your ability to make beautiful images from it.”

“I’m glad. Now, you’re aware of my payment policy?”

“Of course, of course.” Marion made a show of searching for his absent purse. He laughed. “My apologies, _monsieur_. I’d forgotten—It is my white-haired friend with the coin on hand. Warren? Warren, be a dear and pay Peter for our session.” He turned back to Peter. “We’ll pay again when we return to pick up the finished product, of course. Ganymede?”

Gan stood near a chair with a brace on the back, eyeing it with contempt. He glanced over. “Do these things still take as long as I remember?”

“Ah, your family had annual photoshoots as well? That’s perfectly domestic.”

“I wasn’t in any of them.” Gan looked back at the chair, tightening a hand around its arm. “Parents liked to go a lot though. I would just sit there for an hour, off-camera, while they took a picture of an empty third seat.” Gan’s words dripped sarcasm. He met Marion’s eyes, looking as unamused by his own comment as Marion did. “Yes. I’ve had my picture taken before, dumbass. So, how long is this going to take me?”

Marion raised his brows at Peter. “Forgive my friend, Petey. He hasn’t eaten dinner. How will we be budgeting our time this evening?”

“The process takes about fifteen minutes to half an hour to complete.” Peter finished accepting Warren’s coin and tucked it carefully into his apron. “There are looking glasses just over there to help you prepare. Remember, once you’re seated, you mustn’t move. I recommend a neutral expression. Something that will be comfortable for you to maintain. If you shift at all during the procedure, your portrait will not turn out as it should.”

“You’re still gonna try to smile, aren’t you?” Gan asked Marion dryly.

“I very well might.” Marion flashed that smile now and moved to the mirror. A small voice pricked at the back of his mind. _Thank god the blood from your mindless scratching didn’t stain through your shirt._ “Come here now, Ganymede. We must fix your hair again. Warren, you look perfect already.”

Warren made a sound and took his seat on the right. Gan looked like he wanted to follow suit but, begrudgingly, he followed Marion’s order.

“It looks fine,” Gan said when his eyes locked on his reflection. He said it like he knew he was lying. Marion sighed a little laugh.

“Oh, _chéri_ , it does not. Come.” Marion took Gan’s face in both of his hands. Gan’s chest froze halfway through an inhale before stuttering on again. Marion smiled. His fingers carded up through Gan’s hair and he clicked his tongue. “ _Mon beau_ , I do wish you would have left this grease out of your hair. Ah, well… We’ll do what we can.”

He set to tidying Gan’s hair best he could. Brown curls tangled and snared around his fingers. Every so often, he plucked at a knot and Gan’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Marion tried pulling once just for fun. Gan had the same reaction except, that time, his eyes narrowed. Marion accepted the warning. After that, he worked gently.

“There. Not as fluffy as usual, but not as unruly either.” Marion turned Gan to the mirror by his shoulders. “ _Voilá._ ”

Gan examined himself only briefly. Then, he turned to walk back to the chairs. “Let’s get this over with.”

Satisfied, Marion joined him. He stopped Gan before he sat. “No, no, Ganymede. You’ll be taking the middle seat.”

Gan’s nose crinkled. “Why?”

“Don’t you want to be the center of attention? It’s an honor to take that place.”

“Why don’t you take it then? I thought you liked being the center of—Son of a bitch.”

Marion sat on the left before Gan could finish his protest. Gan slinked into the middle chair. Marion watched him wince when Peter stepped behind them, moving to strap them in.

“Your neck will grow tired without support,” Peter explained automatically as he adjusted Warren’s brace. “I will start the camera as soon as all of you are secured.”

Gan may have flinched at first but, when it was his turn to be strapped in, Marion noticed how still he became. His eyes flicked to Gan’s chest. He wondered if he was breathing. The boy was stiff as a statue, until Peter moved on to Marion. Then, Gan’s eyes rolled.

“Ah… It’s been too long since a man has given me such special treatment.” Marion laughed as the brace clamped around the back of his neck.

“You make the same comment every time,” Warren said without looking at him.

Marion frowned. “It’s funny.”

“No,” Gan chipped in. “It’s not.”

Peter returned to his camera. Little clicks and clunks sounded while he fiddled with the machine. Marion hardly paid him any mind.

“If it makes you feel better, Ganymede, I never had a portrait with my family. Of course, with nine children and a drunk mum, it was hardly an idea we entertained in the first place.” Marion laughed. “Dear god, you couldn’t get the triplets to stop moving for an instant, let alone half an hour. I was the youngest and I was still better-mannered than all of those—

“You know ‘no moving’ means no talking too, right?” Gan asked. “If it’s going to be too hard for—”

“Shhh, Ganymede. You can’t speak. You’ll ruin the picture.” Marion settled more comfortably into his chair and a little smile found its way onto his lips; just a faint quirk of the mouth that would be easy to maintain.

The room was silent except for the regular hum of Peter’s machinery. Nobody moved except for Peter, and nobody spoke. In the silence, Marion’s mind started to drift again. He tried focusing on some of the backdrops propped in the corner, but they were mostly obscured by heavy black sheets. He examined some of the machinery, tried to riddle out how it worked, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around it, so he gave up. He looked at Gan and—

“Here.” Peter pointed to the camera’s lens. Marion was supposed to be concentrating on it, so he did. It looked like a single, big, black eye; the window to the soul of a monster. He always enjoyed the product once it came out, but never exactly found this process pleasant. He stared ahead anyway and reminded himself to smile.

Eight siblings, and parents with very vocal opinions meant that Marion never knew silence growing up. Not completely. There was always someone screaming, laughing, singing, crying. All of those sounds were preferable to the quiet. Of course, Marion should be used to the silence by now. After all, Warren hardly spoke. _To spite me_ , Marion was sure. Even so, Marion found ways to fill the gaps himself. He played music. Sung. Made new friends to chat with a while, until he grew bored, and silenced them too.

He was getting antsy. The nail of his little finger started flaking at the arm of his chair. At least that dull scraping was something to focus on. It was a rhythm. He could work with a rhythm. He tried to bring one of his favorite piano scores to mind, fitting it to that tempo. Once that music started flowing, his smile grew easier to preserve.

It struck an off chord when the trash dump returned to his mind.

 _Are we nearly done?_ Marion almost asked. He glanced at Peter, at Warren, at Gan. A low sound built in his throat, but he swallowed it. _Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think._ That was easier to do when he was talking. Or drinking. When he was human, at least, he chased his emotions away with ale. Now that he was immortal, he chased them with cruel, stubborn logic. But sometimes they were the ones chasing him, and it was hard to fight an enemy when he wasn’t even sure what it looked like.

 _“You’re going to end up just like me. And when you do, I’ll find you. I_ like _me.”_

“What?” Marion ripped from his thoughts with a start. Someone had said something. Someone had…

“We’re all done here.” Peter straightened behind his machine, though his attention didn’t move from it. “Thank you for your patience. You may remove the braces now.”

“Fucking thank you,” Gan breathed, and he loosened the bracket. As soon as his head was free to turn—It turned to Marion. And confusion struck his freckled features. “Are you…?”

“Oh, thank the gods. I get restless, sitting in one place for so long.” Marion removed his own support and hopped up from his seat. He moved to shake Peter’s hand, then noticed his own was trembling. He planted it on his hip instead. “I know the finished product will be more than worth my brief discomfort. Thank you again, Peter, _chér._ ”

“Thank you for your business,” the man returned, with his same reserved smile.

Marion was out the door quickly, after that. He needed the night air. Needed the sound of human voices. _Human_ voices, and not the monster whose words kept echoing in his mind.

_“I’ll find you.”_

He choked on a laugh. “ _L'amour est un oiseau rebelle… Que nul ne peut apprivoiser… Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle… S'il lui convient de refuser…_ ”

“Mari, what the hell—” Gan’s brow furrowed when he caught up to him. His hand closed around Marion’s arm and Marion instinctively jerked back. Gan recoiled. _Good._ A sharp smile cut across Marion’s face. He barely felt it.

“Peter’s lovely, isn’t he? I do wish he’d hire someone to play music or something while you’re sitting there frozen, but… Ah, he does good work. I suppose the quiet ones always do, even if they’re pricks about it.” Marion cut a glance to Warren, who was just strolling up. He sighed and continued, “Anyhoo, I am anxious to see the finished portrait. We all looked so pretty tonight.”

Gan’s eyes darted from one of Marion’s to the other. Marion could tell he wanted to ask questions. Questions that would irritate him and make him wish, perhaps, that they were forced into silence again. Or, at least, that Gan was.

“What were you singing?” In the end, Gan decided not to ask those questions. Marion much preferred this one. _Perhaps he is not so daft, after all._ “Did you…write it?”

Marion’s eyes widened. Then, he started laughing. Hard. “No! No, you uncultured boy! It is from Georges Bizet’s _Carmen_. Beautiful opera. And no, I will not translate for you. It wouldn’t do justice to Bizet’s brilliance. _Non, non, non, non_. Now anyway, you said you’ve had experience with family portraits before?”

Gan blinked at the question, then glanced away. “Yeah. I meant what I said about not being in them though. At first, I was. Then, when I got older and they found out…about me…” Gan trailed off. He shrugged, shook his head. “They cut me out of them. Still hung them up, I just wasn’t _there,_ and it was obvious. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t want to be in them anyway. I prefer paintings.”

“Oh! Yes, next time we’ll just have to hire _you_ to do our portrait. In fact, I might start you off with a commission of me first, to give you some practice. The painting must be as perfect as I am, or as close as a flat imitation can get.”

“You talked a little about your family.” Gan watched the ground while he walked. He hesitated and Marion looked at him. He didn’t think either of them knew where Gan was trying to take the conversation, until, “What were they like?”

“ _Were?_ ” Marion cocked a brow, humored. “Ganymede, darling, they still _are_. No past tense. The Gavottes are raising hell in Paris to this day, rest assured.”

“Oh. I didn’t know how…”

Marion laughed again. “How old do you think I _am?_ ”

“Is that why you got all weird about that alley?” Now, it was Gan’s turn to raise a brow, and Marion fell quiet. “It reminded you of them or something?”

 _That alley_. They were heading toward it now. Coming up on it rather fast, actually. Marion whirled and set off down a different street.

“Marion,” Warren said. “It’s this way.”

“This is a shortcut,” Marion said, knowing it wasn’t. He waited a moment. Warren waited too. Then, Warren continued down his own path, and Marion was left alone. Or—He would have been, if he didn’t have a certain human companion attached to him nowadays. His eyes cut to Gan. “I suppose it’s you and me. This way now. We’ll beat Warren home and he’ll eat his words. Or he’ll sulk in his room the rest of the night and ignore us, which seems more likely. Follow now.”

Gan was quiet. His eyes moved over Marion’s face, then his body. Marion’s chest started itching again where his scratches were healing. For a second, Marion feared Gan could somehow see past his clothes, to those shallow scrapes and, of course, to his burns. Then, he remembered Gan was _mortal._ He could do no such thing.

Still, his eyes were _penetrating._ Marion’s pride swelled under that look. How much had he revealed back at the alley? How much had dense, drab Ganymede Reid picked up on? Had Marion _spoken?_ Did he say those words— _I’ll find you_ —aloud when he was sure he’d only thought them? He took a defensive stance there in the street and stared back at those brown eyes.

Gan licked dry lips, then said, “…Tell me more about that opera.”

Marion’s eyebrows shot up. The itching beneath his skin started to subside. He scratched absently at his right shoulder, even though he didn’t need to anymore. Then, a small smile broke on his face and his eyes flashed golden.

“Now you’re asking questions I’m interested in answering. _Carmen_ was first performed in Paris—My hometown!—just a few years ago. 1875, I believe. Now, understand, Bizet based his work off of Mérimée’s novella of the same name. Another French genius.”

“Isn’t that kind of unoriginal?” Gan asked, lightly. “Stealing someone else’s ideas and just going ‘Oh, this is an opera now. So, it’s different. So, give me credit.’”

“Bizet was a master composer, Ganymede! Music and literature are two separate, but interdependent arts. They rely on one another.” Marion cut Gan another look. “Besides, couldn’t I say the very same thing about you? How _unoriginal_ it is to look at something that already exists in nature and simply transfer it to your canvas?”

“…Touché.”

“Precisely. Now, what was I saying…? Oh, yes. So, to understand _Carmen_ , you must first know of Prosper Mérimée. Did you know he was responsible for recovering the tapestries, _La Dame à la licorne?_ It is one of the greatest works of art in Europe, there is no doubt. Of course, in talking about it, I have to invite you to speculate: What does the sixth tapestry represent? If the other five symbolize our five bodily senses…could the sixth truly be love? Or is the meaning so obscure, only the artist was meant to understand it? And another thing…”

He talked the rest of the way home, and Gan listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations!  
> *“Tu es l'amour de ma vie. Tes yeux, j'en rêve jour et nuit. Even the numbers: Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept… Do you even know how to count to ten en français? It’s the most romantic language. Oh, chér, if you don’t know the words, let me be votre professeur.” All this translates roughly to, "You are the love of my life. I think about your eyes day and night. Even the numbers: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... Do you even know how to count to ten in French? I think it's the most romantic language. Oh, dear, if you don't know the words, let me be your teacher."  
> *"Serez-vous mon élève et laissez-moi être votre douce muse française?" is "Will you be my pupil and let me be your sweet French muse?"  
> *"Je t'aime" is "I love you."  
> *"Bonjour, je m'appelle Gan. Comment vas-tu?" is "Hello, my name is Gan. How are you?" Very basic French.  
> *“L'amour est un oiseau rebelle… Que nul ne peut apprivoiser… Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle… S'il lui convient de refuser…” These are lyrics to Geroges Bizet's "Carmen." Marion told Gan he wouldn't translate, but I will: Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame, and you call him quite in vain if it suits him not to come.  
> *"La Dame à la licorne" is "The Lady and the Unicorn"  
> Also, next chapter is called "Ambivalance." It gets...cute. Kinda. You'll see.


	12. Ambivalence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy two month anniversary since the last update! You all have waited long enough for this chapter, so enjoy, and feel free to leave comments - I always love to hear your thoughts and encouragement!

Of all the hardships Gan had endured, he decided none was worse than running errands with his first love. His shoulders hurt from hauling boxes. He liked that ache. It distracted him from the deeper, sharper pain that flared in his chest whenever Liam looked his way. Green eyes were impossible for him to meet; even so, at least they weren’t golden. Gan tried to be grateful. Instead, some other feeling clogged his veins and he found himself scratching, senseless, at his arms. _Get out._ For half a second, he wondered if Marion could suck this horrid emotion out of him next time he went for blood.

“…on the ship. You should see these blokes. They call me all sorts of awful names—It’s the red hair, ya see—but then, all I gotta do is remind them whose family they’re working for. I mean, hell, the Walsh name is carved right into the side of their bloody boat!”

Liam flashed his gapped little grin. Gan barely caught it over the crate he was lifting. Overhead, the sky swam with purples and reds; not the ostentatious shades Marion liked to wear, but softer, blurred around the edges. Gan focused on those muted tones and tried to clear his mind. But, at the same time, his mind was safer than the reality that surrounded him: Liam’s too-familiar voice, and the heat of his body each time he brushed by, and even the _smell_ of him carried Gan years into the past. He thought it might be good for him, facing his history, finding closure. Now, he realized what an _idiot_ he was. Not that that was anything new.

“I imagine you’ve had similar experiences, huh Gan? What with everybody and their mum slaving under George Reid. How’s the old arse been anyway?”

Gan winced. “Fine. Probably.” A pause, as he tried to flake the rust off his gears. Failed. He blinked away from the sky. “I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t…seen him in a while.”

“Aw, yeah, he’s always been a busy fella. I saw his face all of two times when I was still working for him. You look like him, though. That much I remember. Got your mum’s cute little nose, and her lips too. But the rest of you is just as ugly as ol’ Georgie.” Liam’s smile brightened, then faltered. “…Gan? Did I say something wrong?”

Gan’s eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. A single blade of grass twitched under his gaze. A cloud crept over the setting sun, swathing them in shadow. Or maybe it was in his mind, where everything grew darker, dropped a few degrees cooler. Sluggishly, he turned his head when the box was removed from his grip. Liam set it aside and Gan watched him. His body was exhausted. And now, so was his mind. Exhausted.

“Actually, it’s…it’s funny.” The words sounded from far away, even though Gan knew it was _his_ lips that formed them. His eyes wandered aimlessly before catching on that same piece of grass. A safe place. He went quiet.

“Well?” Liam shifted into his field of vision, brows raised by curiosity. “Share the joke then. I could use a hoot. And so could you, I feel like.”

“I just mean…” He trailed off, not knowing what he wanted to say next. And now those green eyes were right in front of him, unavoidable, and it hadn’t been so bad earlier in the day when they were working hard and barely speaking, but now it was nearing evening and business was dwindling, and without anything to busy his hands, Gan’s mind wouldn’t give him a _break_ and—

“Hey, Gan. Hey. You don’t need to talk about any of that if it’s gonna mess with you.”

“No,” Gan snapped, defensive. “That’s not it. I’m _fine_. I just… Shit. I don’t know. I had something to say, but it doesn’t…” He took a breath, pushed it out between his teeth. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so irritable all of a sudden. Sorry.”

Liam levelled him with a quizzical look. It was too gentle, too understanding, and it only made Gan _angry_. He looked away from it.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again.

Liam appeared to weigh his words. Then, “You seem tired, yeah? We only have one more stop to make. Tell you what, why don’t I take care of it and—”

“No. No.” Gan sighed and shook his head. “No, I’ll see it through. I’m fine. Just hungry or something.”

Liam wouldn’t move, so Gan glanced up at him. Something caustic cut through him. Liam was his past. There was no denying that. It wasn’t that he wore the finest clothes, or styled his hair in the primmest fashion, or spoke like a proper businessman, or anything like that. But there was this certain _culture_ that Liam fit into—Gan was realizing it now—and no matter how hard Gan had tried, he’d never fit in with upper-class society. Liam was everything Gan was supposed to be: Charismatic, well-mannered, and he even liked _girls_. Nauseous, Gan walked forward.

“You said our last delivery is…where?”

Liam brightened. “Aye, lemme check my list.” He jogged into place beside Gan and scooped up the final crate. Gan took it from him. “Oh, thanks. So, looks like… Some cozy little tailory off of the city’s edge. Don’t imagine you’ve been there, but the owner’s nice. Swear she could be my auntie if I didn’t know better, what with her—”

Gan perked, brows drawn. “Flora?”

“Flora, that’s right!” Liam laughed. Normally, that laughter would be contagious. Now, it only worked to sink Gan lower. “I always assumed you’d be getting your clothes from someplace a little ritzier but, looking at you now… I guess your tastes have changed?”

Liam indicated Gan’s worn, moth-eaten vest. Gan opened his mouth, then closed it again. _Joking_ , Gan knew. _He’s joking around with you, just like he always did. It’s not malicious. Okay? It’s not. It’s not_. Gan repeated that mantra over and over. His nails flaked at the splintering wooden crate. He stumbled to a stop when Liam leaned into his path.

“What?” Gan tried to keep his voice even, but something dark still rippled beneath the surface. Liam tilted his head. Auburn strands splayed across his brow. Gan’s stomach lurched.

“This morning started off really good, huh?” Liam smiled, sympathetic. “What happened?”

 _What happened._ Gan thought for a second, which bled into a minute. _What happened?_ He’d been in a fine mood that morning, but the more time passed, and the more he was reminded of a past that was violent but _secure_ and, now, so far away… He gave a defeated snort. Shrugged.

“Dunno.” Then, even more honestly, “It just gets like this sometimes.” Gears clacked together, shrieking where iron struck iron. Gan dropped his head. “I wish I knew.”

Liam let the confession settle. Then, “I spy with my little eye, something green.” His smile cracked wider across his face with Gan’s confusion. “Awe, come on. You remember this game. I was shocked to hear your parents never played it with you, but surely you didn’t forget the rules I taught you, huh? So? Something green. I spy it. Tell me what it is.”

“Liam, everything is green around here—”

“ _Everything_ is not _something_. Guess. Something green.”

 _Your eyes._ Gan flinched. “Okay. The needles on that fir over there.”

“Nope. Again.”

“The grass under our feet.”

“Wrong. Keep going.”

Gan forced a small smile. The game didn’t make him feel better, but the least he could do was pretend. “The handkerchief in your pocket.”

“The… What? This isn’t green. It’s blue.”

“It’s seafoam. Which is a shade of green.”

“Seafoam…? Bloke, the sea is _blue_. I’d know. I’m riding her waves every other weekend.”

“Seafoam _green—_ Okay, so it’s obviously not your handkerchief. You could just say that.”

“I just want you to explain to me how _this_ ,” Liam threw the scrap of fabric at him and Gan fumbled to catch it, “looks green, to you.”

“Liam, I’m an artist. What kind of work would I be putting out in the world if I couldn’t tell basic colors apart?”

“Hmmm. Abstract. Some folks are into that weird ‘semi-realism’ or whatever. And, hey, I’m not judging. Oh! Boo, you’ve got something on your face. Let me—” Liam licked the edge of his cloth and reached for Gan’s cheek.

“What? No, stay off me.” Gan nudged Liam’s grasping hand away with his chin. He felt his smile growing more genuine, despite himself. “You’re probably seeing my mole and can’t tell the difference. Just like you can’t tell the difference between seafoam and blue.”

“If that’s your mole, they must be multiplying. I swear there was only one next to your mouth last time I saw you. Now it’s two? And what about next month? Let me wipe ‘em off before they keep spreading.”

“Stop. You’re annoying.” He said it without any real conviction and fended Liam off again. “I’m going to end up dropping this box on you. It weighs twice what your scrawny ass does. Bet the outcome won’t be pretty.”

“Oh, you think I’m pretty?”

Gan’s heart fluttered in a puddle of tar. His smile twisted into something more like a grimace. Was Liam flirting with him? He was always doing this. For years, Gan let it get his hopes up. But then, he couldn’t have misunderstood Liam back when…

_“I’m flattered but I, uh…”_

Gan had spent so many sleepless nights analyzing that refusal, trying to predict how it was supposed to end. He’d wanted a kiss, and Liam had wanted to tell him—something. “ _I, uh…”_

_I’m not like you._

_I’m not a disappointment._

_Not a failure._

A thin hiss of breath returned Gan to the present. “Yeah. You’re pretty. Pretty obnoxious. The shop’s right up here. Hurry up.”

Gan sought refuge under Flora’s faded magenta awning and willed his emotions to stop flipping. He felt caught in the jaws of some feral creature that kept swinging him back and forth, merciless. One moment he was happy to be around Liam again, basking in the warm memory of simpler times. Then, he remembered those ‘simpler times’ only existed in his head, nothing had ever been simple, and he was overwhelmed by sorrow. Sorrow, of course, boiled into rage when he couldn’t figure out exactly where, how, and _why_ the switch had occurred. But then Liam would smile, express an ounce of the compassion Gan so thirsted for, and Gan felt happy once more. Now, he just had motion sickness.

His nausea peaked when he glanced through Flora’s front window.

“No.” Gan ducked behind the beam and squinted into the shop. It was pointless. He knew who he was looking at. No one else was that tall. That flamboyant. That _golden_. His eyes lifted to a dark pink horizon. No sun in sight. “God, no.”

“This is the place.” Liam caught up and continued toward the door.

Well, Gan got what he wanted: His emotions stopped bothering him. Numbness took over. He startled, shivered, snapped. “Why do you need to come in?”

Liam’s hand paused on the doorknob. He turned, brows raised. “What?”

Gan jostled the package in his arms. “I have the box. I’ll just drop it off. There’s no reason for us both to go running in there. She has customers.”

Liam looked from Gan to the window. Something sharp twisted Gan’s gut. He watched Liam watch Marion. Held his breath. Finally, a small smile stole over Liam’s lips. “You know that lady?”

Gan was taken aback. “Flora?”

“No.” Liam nodded to the glass. Realization burned Gan’s ears. _Oh, he thinks—_ “That is one tall lady. Gorgeous too. Where’d you meet a stud like that, Gan?”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Gan shifted the box to his other arm.

“Oh! Right. No. I’m just saying, because you’re real nervous about me—” Liam reached for the door again, and Gan took a lurching step forward. Liam’s grin grew as he fell back. _Damn it._ “Look, I get it. You’re courting someone. Want to impress her. Can’t have rowdy old friends like me embarrassing you with childhood tales. But Gan? I just hope that ring you’re wearing isn’t from Juli.”

His ring. Gan’s fingers twitched. “No, I—This? It’s…” His eyes flickered to the window, betraying him. He cursed himself when Liam whistled.

“Oh ho, so things didn’t work out with Jules? I see, I see. Well, good on you for moving on.” Liam patted Gan’s back. Gan would have protested, but Liam was moving away from the door now, and Gan didn’t want to interrupt that. “That’s a shiny ruby too. Say, I’ll give you your space. Let you have some time with your intended. You ever need me to vouch for your character, I’ve got you covered.”

Gan’s scowl ran from his face, all the way to the soles of his feet. “It’s not like that.”

“Of course it isn’t. But Gan, try not to get so caught up in your flirting that you forget to grab a signature for that package.” Liam tugged a little brass watch from his pocket for examination. “Mm, yeah. So, you take care of that. And her. I’ll run into ya again in a couple of days, I’m sure. I’m always roaming the city. Leave your house once in a while. You’ll have no trouble spotting me.”

Relief mingled with indignation when Liam turned his back. Gan’s face warmed. The ache in his muscles was replaced entirely by a sharp pang of mortification. Then, before Liam got too far away, Gan spoke.

“She’s a he.”

He didn’t know why he said it. He cringed to himself when Liam paused. Green eyes turned back to him, and Gan expected disgust, judgement in that gaze. Instead, he saw only a bright knowingness. A sincere smile. Almost as if Liam was _happy_ for him.

“Aha.” Liam left it at that. Then, he set off again with a merry whistle and a wave over his shoulder. Gan tried to analyze the action. And what did _aha_ mean, anyway? He felt caught, exposed, and yet…he didn’t feel rejected or shunned. Not at all. He stared until the last glimpse of auburn vanished down some sloping hill.

“What the hell.” Gan slumped back against that wooden beam and glanced at the window. Marion’s head was tossed back with mute laughter. If he craned his neck, he could see Flora wagging her finger with a barely suppressed smile of her own. Gan took a breath, adjusted the package in his grip, and pushed his way inside.

Marion’s laughter was no longer mute. It erupted in Gan’s ears like gunshots echoing through a forest. He thought that was fitting: Gan sought refuge in wooded areas, and Marion was so good at ripping him from those sanctuaries. Awkward, Gan lingered in the doorway. Golden eyes cut to his.

“Ganymede!” An excited flush blossomed high on Marion’s cheeks. He rose from his seat with a flourish. “Speak of the devil. Flora, I told you, he cannot stay away from me.”

“I’m not here for you.” Gan swiveled his head to look at Flora. “You have a delivery.”

“Oh, Gan, dear, you can toss that on the counter there. I’ve got my hands full now.” One glimpse of Flora’s hands revealed that they were empty. The lanky boy beside her, however, stumbled under the weight of multiple boxes. Flora directed him with her fists on her hips. “Denton! You lazy boy. Stretch up on your toes and get those top shelves stocked! I postponed this so you could ‘study’—And don’t think I don’t know your studies involved partying with your hoodlum friends for a week straight—and now you’re slower than ever. Shows what I get for helping you out. Pah, move over and grab my stool.”

Clumsily, Gan propped his own box on a wooden counter. He noticed Liam’s handkerchief, still sitting on top, and buried it in his pocket. “You need to sign for this.”

Flora waved him away and planted a foot on a lower shelf, trying to climb her way to the top. Denton dropped his boxes and grabbed her waist for support. “Just scribble my name on the damned thing. Heaven knows they never look at it. It’s some baseless formality and I do not have the time or patience for it now!”

“I, uh, definitely can’t do that.” Gan frowned. “That’s forgery, and we could both get into legal—”

Marion whisked the clipboard off the top of the box and studied it with a smirk. “Can’t manage a simple forgery? Lucky for us, I’ve gotten very good at those over the years. Pen?”

“You seriously cannot—”

“In my righthand drawer, Mari! You see that, Denton? More items for you to restock. Maybe next time you’ll think before wasting your days away and leaving me to run this place myself. Oh, that’s right!” Suddenly, Flora startled and nearly tumbled from her shelf. Denton scrambled to catch her and lower her to her feet. “Gan, I got a couple of your outfits done early. I took this project a tad personally, I’ll admit, and just couldn’t put down my thread! Denton? Denton, where did we—Bah, you wouldn’t know. Wait just a moment, dear, we’re gonna make sure these damn things fit you, yes we are.”

“I was just dropping off a package.” Gan tried to snatch away Marion’s freshly acquired quill, but Marion was faster. He scrawled Flora’s name on the parchment before tossing the clipboard to the floor. Gan scowled and bent to retrieve it.

“Found them! Right where I put them, who would’ve thought?” Flora was at his side before Gan could register her movement. Then, a plume of blue cloth was thrust into his arms and he was being shoved toward a wooden changing screen. “Strip down, sweetie. We’re gonna have you model for us.”

“Flora—I’ve been running errands all day and I really just want to go home and fucking _sleep_.” Gan knew she didn’t hear him. She ushered him behind the screen, patted his shoulder, and shouted something to Marion, who called out a command of his own.

“Push the hair out of your eyes, Ganymede. If the color doesn’t complement them, we’ll have to try something new. Honestly, I’ll have to shear off some of those curls myself if you don’t learn to style them decently.”

“You are both so pushy.” Gan huffed. It didn’t matter. He was outnumbered.

Out of sight, he peeled off the old vest that Liam had teased him over. A cotton shirt crumpled at his feet, appearing more yellow than white. He replaced it with a blue doublet that _felt_ expensive, even without him knowing the price. Silk ran smooth between his fingers, boasting the color of a cloudless summer sky. Golden thread wove into the breast and around the cuffs, adorned with little roses crafted from ribbon.

He wrestled himself into fresh fabric. It was tight, forced him to stand upright and take shallower breaths. His nose wrinkled. He’d worn this before—Not this exact outfit, but the way it fit was sickeningly familiar. He tugged more of his hair into his face. A small rebellion: Against his dad, against his mom, against Marion. Stiff, he ambled out from behind the screen. Flora greeted him with a shriek.

“Oh, Gan, you look phenomenal! Take a walk around. See that it feels alright. Tsk, I should use you as the model for my shop, I should. Maybe you could help me out around here too.” Flora shot a glance at Denton, and the apprentice boy shrank before she focused back on Gan. “There you go, walk around the shop, remember to breathe. I know it’s tighter than you’re used to, duck, but I do hope it’s not _too_ tight. Oh, you just adore it, don’t you? Tell me you do. Mari, Mari, what do you think?”

Marion stepped forward. One hand was planted on his hip. The other stroked his chin, speculative. Gan worked at a crick in his neck. He felt ungainly, standing there for examination like some sort of show mare. He knew no one cared except him.

“Hmmm… You know I am ever a fan of your work, Flora. Though, I do have a few suggestions.” Marion stepped to Gan’s side. Gan leaned away, but Marion pulled him back, pointing and tugging and fussing over the attire. “The overall form is appealing, but the waist is taken in just a tad too far. Now, I personally like to emphasize my hips and shoulders through my dress, but Ganymede has different structural needs. You understand. The embroidery here is a shade too light. It’s washed out entirely by the cool tones. The shoulder padding is too hefty. Makes him look like a warrior when—Let’s admit this now, Flora—the boy has a sharp tongue, but he’s more likely to turn the blade in on himself than he is to lash out at an opponent. As for the pants—Denton, are you taking notes?”

Denton hesitated and looked at Flora. Gan’s eyes followed to catch her frowning, studying her work. She came forward and traced some of the embroidery with a thumb. Marion beamed at her with a hand on either hip.

“Your thoughts, _cheríe_?”

 _Why is no one asking my thoughts?_ Gan rolled his eyes but that didn’t matter either. He knew he was going to obey, and so did everyone else, even in spite of all his petty protests.

At last, Flora sighed. “Well, go. Go try this next one on while I gather my bearings for these modifications. Maybe you’ll like it more. Picky, picky man. Gan, darling, before you change, take one more good look at yourself. Anything you want to alter? Mari’s already got me breaking my back over it.” She chuckled, the comment good-natured, and tucked another outfit into Gan’s arms. “A few more finishing touches won’t kill me.”

“Flora, I think it looks _fine_ ,” Gan half-lied. He didn’t like the style on himself, not at _all_ , but the damned thing was crafted well for what it was. He wedged a finger between the high, tight collar and his throat and managed, “I don’t have complaints. Just give Marion whatever he wants, I guess.”

“Marion _wants_ you to hurry and dress, so we won’t arrive late to the ball.” Marion feigned a yawn, as though he had said this a thousand times before instead of just _once_ , for the first time, without ever consulting Gan to begin with.

“We are not going to a ball,” Gan said, deadpanned.

“Not if you keep taking your time! It’s already begun. I refuse to miss much more of it.” Marion draped himself across a nearby chair, dropping a hand across his eyes. “Honestly, Flora, you can lead a horse to water, but the stubborn thing will just drown itself to keep from having to do anything more.”

“I know the feeling, dear,” Flora said wistfully, and glared at her loitering apprentice.

“No one told me anything about a—” Gan took a deep breath. Dropped his hands in defeat. “Okay. Fine. I’ll get ready for this ball I never expected to go to. And then you owe me.”

“Owe you what, _chéri?_ ” Marion peeked from under his hand. “Something nice, like an entirely new wardrobe that you didn’t even have to pay for? Oh, yes. If anything, you owe _me_. Hurry along.”

“No one asked you to get me this,” Gan murmured, and returned to his place behind the screen. At least there he could grumble to himself without any argument.

Gan didn’t know how he got to this point. This morning, he’d been hoisting crates and making deliveries with a boy he thought he’d never see again. Now, mere hours later, he was going out to dance with a boy he _wished_ he’d never see again. There was no warning, no preparatory transition. Everything he did with Marion Gavotte felt like a headfirst dive—The golden man would check his injuries later, if he felt generous.

Gan shucked off his clothes, carefully enough not to rip them, but violently enough to vent some of his frustration. He held up the second outfit. The fabric was more pleasant to touch, boasting a simple structure and earthy hues. It still wasn’t something he’d wear of his own volition, but it appeared more bearable by comparison. He shrugged into a simple white shirt, folding down his collar and creasing his sleeves as he went. He buttoned a pale green vest on over that, then a dark brown jacket. A pair of pliant leather gloves tumbled to the floor when Gan retrieved his pants, so he pulled those on as well, over his ring and all. He took a deep breath, pleased that it was _possible_. This ensemble, he could tolerate. He pushed back his hair. Then, he remembered Liam’s handkerchief, retrieved it from his pants, and tucked it into the pocket of his new vest. He abandoned the screen’s privacy.

“Well?” Gan looked at Marion expectantly. “Actually, I don’t want your opinion.” He swung around to face the seamstress instead. “Flora?”

Flora’s eyes brightened. Her hands flew up to cover rosy cheeks. “Oh, I just _knew_ those ruddy tones would match your pretty brown eyes and make those cute little freckles pop! Yes I did, didn’t I, Denton?” Flora pinched his cheek and Gan swatted her away.

“To think, I actually had something kind to say.” Marion rose slowly from his seat and crossed both hands over his heart, as though wounded. “Flora, your work is _parfait_ , and we can always take care of modifications later. This will serve just right for tonight’s affairs. Now, I’m afraid we must be off before the other partygoers clean out the bar.”

“Oh, Mari, you’re always in such a bloody rush. Always have somewhere to—Well, alright, fine. Gan, dear, if you ever need any repairs or alterations, you just tell old Flora.” She leaned in, as though sharing a grave secret. “I’ll make my otherwise useless apprentice take care of you for free, I will!”

Flora’s whisper was punctuated by a chime of laughter, which only grew louder when Marion scooped up her hand to kiss it. Then, in one fluid motion, he draped the other outfits over his right arm and settled his left around Gan’s shoulders. With a backwards wave to a giggling Flora and a flustered apprentice boy, Marion steered them toward the exit.

“Are you ready for our dance, _ami?_ ” A bell jingled as the door opened, exposing them to brisk late-evening air. Gan just managed a wave back at Flora before Marion shoved piles of clothing into his arms.

“You did not say anything about this to me whatsoever.” Gan looked Marion over. No, he hadn’t voiced anything about a ball, but Gan supposed his outfit was more than telling. From the lace gloves on his fingers, to the amethyst pulsing at his throat, to the gilded heels making music of his steps, Marion was dressed for extravagance.

“Oh, Ganymede,” Marion drawled. He batted eyes decorated with a smoky dust. “I wanted to surprise you!”

“I hate surprises. The first one you gave me was, ‘Surprise! I’m a blood-sucking hell spawn’ and it’s all been downhill from there.”

“Nonsense. This is the most fun you’ve had in your entire miserable life. Of course, that isn’t a hard standard to beat.” Marion tucked his hand into the crook of Gan’s elbow. He squeezed lightly, then harder when Gan tried to move away. It was clear he wouldn’t relent. “There is always some fancy function or elegant affair taking place in the city. The upper class get so restless. But you know that.”

“Right. So, at what point did you decide you were going to drag me to some stupid rich people thing with you?”

“Honestly, I planned to go myself. Thought I’d find some healthy aristocrat to take a bite of and wash him down with a dance. Then you arrived at Flora’s shop, all by yourself. I believe in fate, Ganymede. You were destined to accompany me.”

“I was destined to deliver a fucking box.” Gan shifted the clothes onto his other shoulder. He didn’t feel at all slighted by Marion’s plan to bite someone else. He _didn’t._ Because that would be stupid. It would be disgusting and pathetic and he just _didn’t feel that way_. He couldn’t. “You just happened to be there to ruin the experience for me. As usual.”

“But of course,” Marion mused. “And how is Leon?”

“Who?” Gan grimaced. “Liam?”

Marion gasped. “That’s _right_. So, you were travelling with him today. Interesting.”

“What’s interesting about it? And I didn’t even say I was with him. Did you see me with him?”

“Yes.”

Gan faltered. “Oh.”

“Did I say yes?” Marion grinned. “I meant, no. But your reaction was very telling. Thank you. Yes… How is our friend Liam?”

“He’s—You know what? No. Why did you just assume I was with him?”

“You’ve been holing yourself up in your room, painting his portrait for nights on end. Then, once you finished it, you ogled and stared and, I’ll bet if I checked your shirt collar, it would have been wet with drool. You called him a _friend_ , Ganymede. I can’t imagine you have many of those. Besides, I don’t know any more of your acquaintances, so it’s natural for me to guess the only name I’ve heard, no? It’s hardly a science.”

“Okay. New question.” Gan cut him a hard look. “Why’s it matter?”

“That’s funny, I don’t seem to recall saying it _did_.” Marion shrugged a tasseled shoulder. “I was just asking about your day. I could tell you about mine instead, if you prefer?”

Gan stared a moment longer. Marion’s profile was distinct in the dull glow of the lanterns. He didn’t meet Gan’s gaze, but he smiled like he knew he was watching. Gan looked ahead again and sighed. “Fine. Sure. How was your day?”

“Look at you! Talking like people do.” Marion laughed, and continued before Gan could snap at him. “I only just woke up, but I thought I’d pay a visit to Flora. Warren needs a new scarf, you see, and I wanted to check the status of your clothes besides.”

Gan furrowed his brow and sifted through the clothes in his arms. “I don’t see a scarf here.”

“There isn’t one. Fuck Warren. Anyway, Flora gleefully informed me about what she had completed. Denton proved embarrassingly inept, as usual. And then you showed up. Now we’ve made plans! A successful evening, indeed.”

Marion stopped suddenly. He whirled into Gan’s path and bent so his nose grazed Gan’s own. Gan’s whole body tensed. All at once, he was back in that alley, and a golden stranger was blocking his way, _then_ _fangs tore bloody holes in his skin and—_

“Maybe,” Marion said, his breath cool on Gan’s cheek. “It will even end with a kiss.”

“Maybe it…what?” Gan’s lip curled. Flame licked up the back of his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He shoved past Marion, ignoring his high laugh. “Don’t fuck with me right now. You’re already lucky I’m going to this dance with you.”

“I mean it! A crimson kiss from your golden lover.” Marion flashed his canines, white as two deadly pearls. “Forgive me if I’m moving too fast, I just feel as though we’ve really bonded lately. It all started with _Carmen_ , and the sentiment’s only grown.”

“Sorry you feel that way,” Gan mumbled.

A building crested into view on his left and he swung toward it without comment. He didn’t need Marion to tell him this was the place; the suits and ballgowns and gales of laughter were all the confirmation he needed. Now, he headed straight for them, tugged on by a golden thread. He knew this routine, had practiced it many times. As Gan held his head up and strode dutifully toward the arched entryway, he could almost hear his father’s voice. _Do not embarrass me._ More saliently, he felt the vice of the man’s grip bruising his forearm. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want to be here. It never did.

A hand circling his wrist made him startle, but when he looked up, he did not see the hard countenance of George Reid.

“Please, Ganymede, don’t look so grim. This is a party, not a funeral. You aren’t being buried yet, so try to look alive!” Marion’s eyes glittered when he turned them on the crowd. Something sparked, in that instant, that almost made his joy contagious. Gan let it roll off. He also let Marion take his arm. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in front of so many fine members of the elite. “Ah, look there.”

Gan tilted his head back as they stepped past the threshold. A sumptuous chandelier glinting with a thousand crystals made their shadows jump and writhe like flame. _Flame_. His eyes traveled to Marion’s neck, mostly obscured by a high collar. Through the gaps in the lace, he could almost make out flared, red scar tissue. He glanced away before Marion noticed.

A marble fountain rose in his field of vision. Around it, an assortment of flowers exploded with color and life. They made the boyish sculpture in the center appear all the more vibrant, and the water spouting from its hands entirely pristine.

“Do you think that sculpture is modeled after you?” Marion asked, pointing. “The water-bearer.”

Gan ignored the comment. He had no choice. Even if he’d wanted to react, Marion gasped and pulled him to a new location before he could. He passed long tables adorned with savory dishes and crystalline drink. Everywhere he looked, people with painted faces passed by with gossip on their tongues, or a picture frame around their necks. It was difficult to tell the real guests from the portraits on the walls. He gaped at one in particular—A princely young man with a hound at his side—until Marion whisked him into another room yet.

“Mesmerized by all this art, I see.”

It took Gan a moment to realize Marion was speaking to him. Marion hadn’t stopped chattering since the second they walked in. Anyone who passed him fell victim to his theatrical remarks. Not that many of them seemed to mind.

“Do you know everyone here?” Gan questioned back.

“Oh, Ganymede.” Marion laughed, and the fabricated sound mingled perfectly with the other noises that encased them. “The only familiar face I’ve seen is yours. But every guest you see has the same purpose we do. They want to go out, mingle with strangers, laugh with people whose faces they won’t remember and learn names they’ll never say again. Stop clutching those clothes like a scared child and socialize, and you’ll see what I mean.”

Marion plucked the fabric out of Gan’s hands, looked around, and flagged down a dimpled serving girl. “Excuse me, _chérie_ , would you hang these someplace secure? We got so swept up in the magic of this place, we forgot to shed them at the door.”

“At once, sir.” The girl offered a smile and curtsey, and then she made off with the outfits. Gan watched her go with the barest hint of a frown.

“What’s that look about?” Marion chuckled. “Afraid she’ll steal whatever you left in your pockets?” Gan flushed, but Marion continued. “I would, if I were her. And can’t you sympathize? You’ve been in worse positions.”

“I didn’t have anything in my pockets,” Gan muttered, but the blush didn’t leave the tips of his ears.

“Just so. Ah! Ganymede! It’s the ballroom. The main attraction. Let’s peek, shall we?”

Gan stumbled over his own feet when Marion pulled him onward. He snapped at him to slow down, but his voice drowned beneath a booming symphony. Before they’d even stepped foot in the ballroom, Marion was swooning over unseen musicians.

“My! That viola. I’ve never met a god before, Ganymede, but I imagine that is what they sound like. And that clarinet—Or is it a chalumeau? For all that Warren calls me a woodwind instrument, I do have trouble telling them apart. Whatever it is, its master has talent. But the piano… Listen. There is no mistaking it. Do you hear that, Ganymede?”

 _No, I’m deaf._ Gan almost said it out loud, but the dreamy bliss in Marion’s expression stopped him. It was just like when he’d talked about that play he liked, or when he played piano—Not those times when he hammered out a jaunty tune without looking and tried to show off. All of that was artificial. But Gan had caught Marion once or twice, always in the dead of night, swaying on his bench with a lovelorn glaze in his eyes. Moments like that, Gan knew that Marion was enchanted by his music. Now was no different. And when Marion felt enchanted, it made him look _enchanting._ Gan blinked and cast his attention elsewhere.

Delicate fairy lights twinkled all around, like imitation stars. They bathed everything else in an ivory glow. Moonbeams shimmered like dew atop white rose centerpieces. The ceiling stretched high above, painted with the likeness of a cloudless night. Hooped skirts and pointed shoes spun around below, but Gan could make out no faces. Phantoms, all of them, swept past with crystal cups and silver smiles. And Marion really didn’t know any of them? Gan frowned.

“At the risk of ruining your night, may I ask what sort of dancing you were trained in as a child?” Marion slipped through the crowd with fluid movements. By now, Gan was grateful for his lead. “Were you a stiff and stuffy fan of waltzing? More of a five-step kind of fellow? How about a bit of Schottische? Perhaps the Varsouvienne?” Marion mimicked each dance in turn, long legs moving with sure-footed grace.

Gan shouldered past partygoers with less elegance. He sighed. “I did a lot of dancing. Waltzing included.” Then, before Marion could get any ideas, Gan added, “I don’t plan to do any of it, though. Think I’ll just watch. Make sure I remember how everything looks, so I can paint it for you later.”

“For me?” Marion threw a hand over his heart, his smile sugar sweet. Gan rolled his eyes.

“Don’t act all surprised. I said I would give you company, _food_ , and paintings as part of our agreement. This isn’t a gift. It’s rent.”

Marion chuckled, then turned to survey the crowd. “Well, it is an inspiring picture.” He paused, drinking in the blur of images. “Although, some of the best artists I’ve met fully integrate themselves into the scenes they wish to capture. They memorize them not just with their eyes, but with all of their senses. They capture the sounds, the textures, the scent on the air. They paint a draft with their bodies, before ever transferring it onto canvas.” He held out an arm. “For your art?”

“What?” Gan’s heart slammed into his throat. _He’s serious_. He swallowed, not hard enough. “Why do you want to dance with me in the first place? Look, I’m out of practice. I’ll probably step on your toes or something.”

He fully expected Marion to say something snarky, sarcastic, or scornful. But Marion didn’t speak. He just stood there, wiggling his fingers encouragingly. And damn him for that. Maybe Marion knew that anything— _Anything_ —he said would be used to justify Gan’s refusal to dance. He was learning to shut his mouth, finally, but at the least convenient time. Gan’s defenses faltered. Gears clattered and clanged. The heat of the ballroom felt oppressive, cloying, but also—Secure. Maybe, maybe this wasn’t a trick.

“Fine.” Gan steeled his shoulders. “But I’m choosing the music.”

Triumph sparked in Marion’s eyes. He bowed toward the orchestra. “By all means.”

“And I’m leading.”

“Oh, but from what I hear, if you lead, we’ll end up in a tangled heap of broken toes.”

“You’ll have broken teeth if you don’t watch it,” Gan murmured without any real malice. “Come on.”

He grabbed Marion’s hand. He’d been aiming for his wrist, but _his hand._ It felt cool through the fabric of their gloves. He almost moved to seize his forearm instead, but Marion squeezed, and Gan couldn’t think past the blood rushing in his ears.

“Hey. Excuse me.” Gan rose his voice once he reached the musicians’ stand. All of them played on, oblivious, and Marion laughed beside him. Gan squeezed his hand sharply in warning. “Hello? I have a request.”

One woman blinked open blue eyes at him. She cradled the neck of a cello lovingly against her cheek. Her eyes moved over Gan, then Marion, who stepped forward.

“A thousand pardons, _mon ange_ , but my friend and I were hoping to make a request. Do you take them? We’ll pay for your accommodation, of course.”

The woman blinked. Annoyance rolled through Gan’s stomach. What, this cellist was too good, too _wealthy,_ to talk to them? He opened his mouth again but closed it when she said something to the man beside her. He answered in the same language she’d spoken. Not English. German.

“Oh! A language barrier. What fools we were.” Marion laughed the matter away with a swipe of his hand. “It looks like we won’t be getting a request in after all, Ganymede, but I have faith—”

“ _Darf ich eine Anfrage stellen?_ ” Gan asked. The woman brightened. Marion gaped. He was told _yes_ , he _could_ make a request, so he asked for something slow. It was easier to put to words when he knew Marion couldn’t understand him. With a _danke_ , he looked back at wide golden eyes.

“What?” Gan shrugged. “It’s just that ‘former rich boy education’ you were going on about. Let’s go.”

Marion said something, but Gan was much more focused on their still-joined hands. Every pulse against his palm, every shift of their fingers, every faint tug and unknowing squeeze—Gan felt it as surely as his own heartbeat. He didn’t mention it, though, even as he led Marion back to the dancefloor. The musicians winded down from their previous song, just as Marion seemed to be winding down from some unheard rant. Gan could have gathered a few pieces from what he’d been saying. Perhaps he could have formed a half-hearted response. But a different question still nagged at him.

“You really don’t know _anyone_ else here?” Gan hesitated, then released Marion’s hand. Marion smirked and caught his hand back, fixing it over his own hip. He took a step forward and Gan was overwhelmed by a stark lavender scent. Then, they were standing face to face. Gan tilted his head back slightly to meet Marion’s eyes, and Marion appraised him with mischief written in every line of his body.

“I don’t keep many friends, Ganymede.” Marion tugged Gan’s sleeve, until Gan rested his other hand on Marion’s shoulder. He felt too solid, _real_ , beneath his silk vest. Almost like any other human might. “I’d ask if that comes as a surprise to you, but I bet I could guess your answer.”

Gan squinted in disbelief. At the head of the room, a harpsichord heralded the beginning of a new song. “Everyone likes you, though. For some stupid reason. They all think you’re charming. Especially since they don’t know…what you are. It’s not like—” Gan stopped there. _It’s not like me not having friends. The reason for that is pretty fucking clear._

Marion smiled. It was unlike his usual grin. Something wistful ( _lonely?_ ) lingered at the edges. Regardless, he draped his arms around Gan’s neck to close the space between them. “You can like someone without being their friend. And vice versa. I consider Warren a friend, after all.”

More instruments trickled into the mix. Strings blended into woodwinds, which complemented a low, hypnotic bass. Marion stepped forward, but Gan cleared his throat, so he fell back again. Gan was going to lead. If he was going to do this, he had to have control. His feet swept up into a clumsy waltz. He concentrated hard on keeping himself moving, calculated where to plant each step. Marion, by contrast, danced like it was an unconscious thing; he didn’t think, the music was his puppeteer. He only stumbled when Gan stepped on his boot.

Gan gasped. “Sorry.”

Marion only smiled, without a hint of teeth. He carded his fingers through the ends of Gan’s hair, chasing a shiver down his spine. Gan’s breath quickened. He picked up his pace to match and stumbled again.

“Shit, sorry.” Gan stared at the floor. At the space between them. At Marion’s shoes gliding seamlessly over glossed tile, and his own feet, tripping their way along. His next inhale came thick. It didn’t help that his heart was still drumming in his throat. “God, I…I haven’t done this in years. Okay. I’ll just watch.”

“Sorry for what?” Marion tightened his grip before Gan could flee. “I didn’t notice a thing. Well, except your blatant avoidance of my eyes. Am I that unpleasant to look at?” He crooked a finger around Gan’s chin and lifted it to meet his gaze. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to be seen with a man?”

Gan released a hard rush of air. His eyes dropped again, even with his chin held in place. In the corner of his eye, he saw the glinting dazzle of precious metals and gems. Marion wore so many, and Gan’s only one was trapped beneath his glove. “I look like you bought me for the night.”

A chuckle rumbled in his ears. “If you have a better suggestion for how to pass the night, _Monsieur_ Ganymede Reid, I am all too eager to hear it. Until then, look upon my face and give your partner a proper dance.”

Wind expanded Gan’s lungs until they ached. He blew it out again. Forced eye contact. His hands shook, so he clasped them harder onto Marion’s shoulder and hip. Somehow, that didn’t help. “If you want me to look at you, talk about something so I’m not just staring aimlessly at your face.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Like, tell me who you were before you became…this.”

“Before?” Marion’s eyes widened innocently. “I was born this way, didn’t you know?”

Gan’s brows shot up, then furrowed. “Really? I swear you’ve said something before about…” Marion’s straight face shattered into an amused grin. Gan shoved him, and Marion nearly tripped before steadying himself against Gan’s body. He scoffed. “You’re lying to me.”

“ _Joking_ , Ganymede. There’s a distinction. And anyway, the street goes both ways. I still hardly know a thing about you…besides what the myths say, _Monsieur_ Cupbearer. And your life history is much shorter than mine, you understand. So? You first.”

Gan stumbled over half-formed words. He didn’t know how to start a story, not like Marion did. He busied himself by guiding Marion into a slow circle, his feet moving more certainly now. “Not much is interesting. I grew up with the renowned Reids. You know them. Everybody knows them.” _Except no one did, really._ “My dad owns everything. I’ve been painting and dancing since before I could talk. Um…” Gan faltered, and Marion picked up the slack with a confident promenade. “I worked at a tavern. You know that. So…what about you?”

“A thirty second story for a twenty-something year life?” Marion clicked his tongue. “Well, here’s my equally uninteresting auto-biography…” Marion halted, then advanced, forcing Gan backwards. He led now, as the music grew louder, faster. “I was born into, we’ll say, a less-than-wealthy family. The youngest of nine, runt of the litter. I ate more than I was worth, you see. That still seems to be the case, don’t you think?” He tapped the side of Gan’s neck, winked, and chuckled when Gan brushed him away. “Some things don’t change. I never worked at a tavern, though I visited them often enough. One night, I became what I am today, and now…”

Gan absorbed the information with a hum. Then, his legs twisted and suddenly he was leading again, driving Marion backwards. His palm slid to the small of Marion’s back, keeping him contained. It helped him meet those golden eyes with more self-assurance. He thought about what to say next while lingering beats measured his thoughts.

“I’ve got a younger brother. Half-brother.” Gan steered Marion away from a pirouetting couple and went on, “George Reid knocked up some prostitute, but I’ll bet that’s one of the stories you _haven’t_ heard about him. Mother doesn’t know. I do. I’ve never seen the kid, though. He’s off somewhere on the other half of the world, probably.”

Marion’s eyes flashed at the halting confession. “Now there’s an interesting tidbit.” He hummed, flattening his palm between Gan’s shoulder blades. “I assume that’s why you looked at the courtesans in your tavern with such contempt?”

Gan snorted, and sidestepped Marion when he tried to regain control. “They’re mooching off of desperate men who are probably married. You seem like the type to pay for company, though, so what, you like them?”

“They are workers, earning their living.” Marion slid sideways and Gan followed, cursing himself for letting him steal the lead. “They are no different from anyone else charging for a service they provide.” Marion looked off, over Gan’s shoulder. Something pensive swirled in his eyes. It appeared he wished to say more on the matter, but then he didn’t. “What are your parents like?”

Gan gave up on trying to steal the lead. At some point, they’d migrated to the center of the floor, and the crowd was thick here. Marion could guide them around the bodies more artfully than he, so he relented. “My parents are…good people. If you’re what they want you to be.”

“And you never were…” Marion mused. “Go on.”

“I don’t know. I never saw much of them.” And the little bit he did see… Gan thought of a commandeering aura, looming over him even in absence. He remembered a woman with his nose, who didn’t shift even when he called to her. He recalled the rare family dinners: Tense, silent, but they were taking their meal _together_ for once, so Gan’s juvenile joy overrode his fear. He felt like he was a part of something, even if that something was hideous, damaged, and dark. He shook his head and stumbled on a backwards step. “So. Yours?”

“Any parents who toss their whelp out on the streets can’t be so good.”

Gan had been expecting a sarcastic comment, so Marion’s sudden bitterness surprised him. His head snapped up, but by then, Marion had mastered himself and moved on to Gan’s own question.

“My parents?” Marion maneuvered into a spin, boot heels gliding over their joint reflection. “It’s been so long, I’m afraid I’ve very nearly forgotten them.” Marion paused. Something sour clung to the corners of his mouth. Golden eyes darted upwards, searching, as though for the truth. Gan didn’t think he’d found it. “Warren is the closest thing to a parent I have, considering how much he nags me. And you’ve met him.” He drew Gan in as the music slowed. Gan’s heart fluttered, out of sync with the sound. This close, he could see every individual particle of glitter highlighting Marion’s cheekbones. “And did you have friends? Playdates for George’s heir?”

Gan almost laughed, from nerves or disbelief. “Playdates? Between painting, history, arithmetic, literature, dancing, church, fencing, and my father’s businesses, do you think I had _time_ to socialize?”

“Suddenly it all makes sense. The social ineptitudes.”

Gan glared. The crowd was thinning out, so he took charge again, whisking Marion into a series of short, quick steps. “There was a girl. My parents introduced us when I turned sixteen. I don’t know why the sudden change. It turned into an arranged marriage…” Gan sighed. “But back to Warren. How long have you two known each other?”

“Oh, our lovely little Warren.” Marion smiled with a sigh of his own. “I’ve known Warren since before I was turned. Unfortunately. You’ll find you get quite tired of people after twenty-odd years.”

“With any luck, I’ll die before you’ve known me that long.” Gan stiffened when he realized what he’d said. Quickly, “Not because I’m worried you’ll get sick of me. Just, the joke was… Never mind. Yeah.”

“Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve grown as sick of him as he’s grown of me.” Marion smiled wistfully. Gan knew it was theatrics but, for the first time he wondered, how much of it was _real?_ “But the girl, Ganymede?”

“The girl was a girl.” The music was rising again, and Gan took long strides to keep up with that bouncing refrain. “The last time I saw her was the day my parents told me to leave. What was it like? When you were turned?”

A discordant note struck the air. Gan glanced at the orchestra stand. But no, the musicians played their parts expertly. Each sound bled together into an angels’ choir of song. So, what…?

“I do feel a bit sick now, actually…” It was Marion. Marion who looked off. Not quite himself. As though the wrong note played within him. Gan hesitated, tried to gather up the loose threads of conversation. True to fashion, Marion spoke before he had the chance.

“At first bite, it was the most pleasurable experience I’d ever known. Euphoric. Better than sex.” Marion’s eyes glazed over. Gan glanced around, almost told him to lower his voice, but it made no matter. Marion wouldn’t, or couldn’t, hear him. “You remember when I nearly drained you in that alley?” Marion’s eyes snapped to Gan’s then, startlingly lucid. “Magnify that tenfold. I’m not as strong as _he_ is. And I didn’t have the intention of turning you. And you did not love me as I loved him.”

Drums crashed into the medley. They echoed great, steady thrums. Gan startled at the first bang, then flushed hot with embarrassment. Marion didn’t notice. He only dragged Gan into a faster ballet. His tale unraveled like lyrics to the song.

“I can ask you to imagine the ecstasy, but that’s infinitely easier said than done. Anyway, bear with me. All of my worries drained away. My pains, my inhibitions, gone. I was filled with bliss and vulnerability. Enchanted. It dragged on forever, and yet, it ended in an instant.” Cool fingers traced Gan’s throat before applying pressure there. Firelight sparked in his pupils and Gan felt his throat bob beneath Mari’s palm. “Then my body…began…to die.”

The cut of Marion’s smile was so sharp, it stabbed through Gan’s defenses. He made a low sound, even as Marion talked over it. “That’s an agony I can never describe to you, Ganymede. No human words can paint that foul picture. My organs failed. My muscles collapsed. I went deaf, and blind, and cold. I screamed until I was hoarse. Until I was mute.”

All around, the music swelled into a crescendo that rattled Gan’s bones. It jarred his insides, scoured them out, made him hollow. Heedless, Marion’s voice dipped below a whisper. It should have been impossible for Gan to hear him, yet he hung on every word, shivering like a raindrop clinging to a rose. Or its thorns.

“Ganymede, listen to me here.” Marion’s eyes were glass. All Gan saw was his reflection, a pale blur set in golden depths. His lips trembled, just as Marion’s curled into a leer. “That man… That devil turned Warren because he thought he’d make a good vampire. He turned me because he wanted me to suffer before I died.”

With a final blast, the orchestra ended their performance. Applause erupted from the masses. Gan’s body jolted. He still had so many questions. What man? What _devil?_ Marion had loved him? Did Warren know this ghoul? Where was he now? Marion whirled away before any of the queries could form.

“Well!” Marion clapped, and the sudden boom of his voice made Gan cringe. “It’s getting dreadfully late. Will you be escorting me home?”

Gan’s brow twitched. A past he couldn’t imagine raced behind his eyes. He saw a younger Marion, _human_ , falling in love. Being led on. Bitten. Changed. _Abandoned_. And was that why he claimed not to have any friends? Why did he keep calling Gan one? Because Gan couldn’t leave? Because he wasn’t a threat, not really, not in any way that mattered? Marion Gavotte… He’d needed to tell that story. Had to voice it to someone who knew what he was, who couldn’t harm him for it. That was the only reason he would have told _Gan_ , of all people.

“Oh, good, now it does feel like a funeral.” Marion scoffed.

Gan noticed a pile of clothes tucked into his arm and he wondered… When had Marion gotten them back? And had the front door always been so nearby? They reached it in what felt like a few short strides. Gan had led most of their dance, but now, Marion led them outside, where the cold froze his lungs and he could only be grateful they weren’t shutting down. _My body…began…to die._ Gan winced. He couldn’t imagine.

“I’ve been writing a new song, Ganymede.” Marion’s voice whipped up into brisk winds, and Gan chased it with his gaze. It must have rained. Or snowed. Water trickled between the stones underfoot. “I want you to help me with the lyrics. You paint with a brush, so help me paint with words!”

A too-cheery song broke on Marion’s lips, and rose with gusto. Tension shot through Gan’s nerves, turning him rigid. He’d been enthralled by Marion’s story. That was authentic, it was insightful and sincere. Now, with Marion returning to his needless bluster and bravado—Gan just wanted him to _be quiet._

“Shut up.” Gan wrenched their arms apart. “You’ll wake the whole city like that. _Hush_.”

Marion laughed, raucous and high, and Gan almost found comfort in knowing it wasn’t just _his_ sensitivities that Marion ignored—It was his own, too. “You humans get embarrassed by such mundane things. How do you live?”

Gan stared at him a moment. Shook his head. “You said it yourself: I paint with brushes. Not words. You’ve seen how talented I am when it comes to opening my mouth.”

“Oh, yes, you’re very graceful. Master of social etiquette.” Marion hopped onto the wooden frame of a garden bed and balanced along it while he walked. “I’m going to whistle now. I pray that will not offend you half as much as the singing.”

Gan blinked. This man was a riddle, one that caught in the gears of Gan’s mind and made it impossible to think. He ambled along, feeling more and more absent the further he slipped into himself. “Enjoy.”

That whistling carried them home. The mansion was starting to look familiar to Gan. It was no longer a mysterious palace to which he didn’t belong. No. The bigger mysteries resided within. At least, he thought, he was beginning to crack one of them. He watched Marion as they crossed the backyard. Patches of moonlight gaped through the hedges. It was nothing compared to the silver crescent of Marion’s smile.

“Trade?” Marion held out Gan’s clothes. His free hand wiggled expectantly. Gan broke from his nocturnal daze.

“Trade…what?” Gan asked, the words softer than he’d intended. He supposed his heart was loud enough that his voice didn’t have to be. “I thought you were paying for…”

“Your _key_ , Ganymede. My key. I’d like to let us into the house. Here’s my end of the bargain.” Marion swept the fabric off his arm and over Gan’s own. “Now, for yours?”

Gan stared. He tried to muster some irritation at the smirking face before him. The pang in his chest wouldn’t allow it. _Abandoned_. Gan knew that feeling. He rummaged through his pants and pressed the key into Marion’s hand. Marion looked surprised, but only for a second.

“Of course. Thank you, _chér._ ”

The door swung open on a candlelit foyer. Marion tucked the key into his vest and headed for the staircase. Gan went his own direction, but he didn’t miss the way Marion glanced back at him because, oh, he _expected_ Gan to ask for the key back. Gan stopped midstride. His hand returned to his pocket. He had a different idea.

“Hey, Mari.” Carefully, he drew Liam’s handkerchief out of his pocket and held it up for examination. “What color is this?”

Marion’s nose crinkled. He reached over the railing and plucked the fabric from Gan’s hand. His head tilted and he held it up to the light. A small crease appeared in his brow. Then, as he brandished the cloth back out to Gan, “Seafoam.” A beat. “You’re an artist. Shouldn’t you know?”

Gan fought a losing battle with his smile. Warmth flooded him as he retrieved the cloth. He wasn’t sure what it was. Satisfaction, maybe. Yes, that seemed right. That same satisfaction only tugged harder on the corners of his mouth once he turned away.

“Goodnight, Marion.”

Another thoughtful pause. Then, Marion chuckled, and even that sounded warm. “Good morning, Gan.”

Down in his room, Gan reflected on the night’s events. Flora’s shop. The ball. What Marion had said. Perhaps, more importantly, what Marion _hadn’t_ said. He considered writing a letter—With no addressee of course—to sort his thoughts. His hand itched for a quill. _Or…_

Gan scratched Belle’s ears as he rose from his bed. She stretched with a sleepy coo and Gan smiled. Rather, he realized he was _still_ smiling. He pressed his lips together into something he hoped resembled neutrality. With practiced hands, he unfolded his easel and laid fresh canvas into place. He lined up bottles of paint, some fresh, some clumpy from being left in the open. He could stir them out. On a discarded parchment, he mixed swatches of green. Seafoam green.

At last, he started a portrait of the sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, titled "Master..."
> 
> Remember that "devil" Marion was talking about? Okay. Keep remembering him.


	13. Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's an update that didn't come a month late! It's all thanks to you guys, motivating me with your awesome comments and kudos :) Enjoy the read, and let me know what you think!

A voice. Calling his name. The words that followed were clouded. Marion stirred beneath his blankets, a distant ache nagging at his temples. A face. Through the haze. Piercing grey eyes. Blood-stained lips. A dream. This was… He was dreaming.

“Marion.”

Now, the dream was breaking into reality. It split his skull apart, set his eyelids aflame. Waking… He was waking and he—He shouldn’t be up this early. His biological clock screamed as he cracked open red-rimmed eyes. The figure in his doorway blurred into focus. Warren? Warren wouldn’t be awake before dusk. A vampire’s sleep was more like death than it was like life; it was not meant to be broken. Which meant the intruder had to be—

_Of course._

“Do you know what _time_ it is?” Marion’s voice cracked. He rose ungracefully from a nest of pillows and tangled golden locks. He could feel the veins in his forehead, his neck, his jaw all pulsing a deep midnight blue. He imagined he must look monstrous. _Good_. Perhaps the boy would learn not to disrupt his beauty rest. He glared, waiting for an explanation.

“Yeah, I know the time.” Gan leaned against the doorframe. A flicker of hesitation passed over him, like he regretted walking in. Just as he _should_. “I need money if you want me to buy my own food. I’m also going to pick up that stupid photograph you had taken. Where do you keep your coin? I’ll get it myself, so Your Majesty doesn’t have to move.”

Marion groaned, draped an arm over his eyes, and gestured vaguely in the direction of his music box. He pulled his blankets up higher, encasing himself in a feathery warmth. “Bring me a fresh batch of cookies,” he slurred, tossing onto his side. “Then don’t wake me ‘til sunset.”

“You can’t even eat cookies,” came a mumble across the room. There was a faint click, the first few notes of a tinny song, and then another snap. Marion fell asleep again before his door had shut.

_It had been a long time since he’d taken a walk. Just enjoyed the outdoors, the sun on his face…_

_Sun._

_He squinted up at a clear blue sky. His skin tanned beneath a golden globe of fire. It reflected in irises the same color, painted his surroundings with a radiant glow. The scenery never changed. He’d walked for hours. Days. Still, he never escaped the field sprawling out around him. By some miracle, he didn’t feel tired, or ache from the physical strain of a long journey. He was just warm._

_And alone._

_Solitude must be the price he had to pay to see the sun again, because, if he was alone, there was no one to hurt him. No one could change him into a monster or blister his flesh in a hellish inferno. There was only him. Him and the sun. That was what he wanted._

_Grass whispered beneath his feet and he responded with a sigh of his own. He would sit. He didn’t need to. He was prepared to walk for months, years, more. But he wasn’t going anywhere, so why rush?_

_He lowered himself, stretching long legs out in front of him. His palms pressed into the broad expanse of green below. He tilted his head back to watch that bright, cloudless sky._

_Except, it wasn’t cloudless anymore. A single grey puff crawled along the horizon. It troubled him. He put a hand to his forehead to block the sun’s glare. But why? The sun wasn’t too bright before. He’d been looking directly at it for hours. Why shield himself from it now? Why was he starting to sweat? For the first time in this luminescent wonderland, a feeling other than mindless euphoria gripped him. That feeling was dread._

_He staggered to his feet. The grass was suddenly hot, too hot, to touch. He inched toward the cloud and stopped. He should turn back. No clouds drifted behind him, surely._

_When that mounting fear wrenched him backward, a sharp cry shattered the peace. His cry. Because there was a fire in the field, and it was clawing its way toward him. Consuming. Destroying._

_He ran. Not fast enough. Flame snapped at his ankles. He shouted, hoarse, and stumbled. Damn._ Damn. _He tried to pick himself up. That’s when the laughter started: A sick cackle that jarred his bones. A scream stuck in his throat, heaving into a sob. Then, the fire captured him. It ate at his flesh, scorching him down to his core. That laughter was the last thing he heard before his own shrieks and pleas drowned all other sound._

Marion bolted upright, clutching a sweat-damp sheet. His cheeks were wet too, and he swiped at them, delicately, so none of his skin peeled away. His heart beat a rapid tattoo in his chest. It was painful, but not as bad as the fire. He swallowed a small sound in a raw throat. Screaming. He prayed to heaven or hell that he hadn’t been screaming.

Numb, Marion dragged himself out of bed. He didn’t have to look around to know he was alone. He felt the emptiness of the room as he’d felt the emptiness of the field. He needed to escape the isolation. That was what he’d failed to do in his dream. That was why the fire got him.

Marion took a deep breath, practiced a smile. Fluidity returned to his movements, and his bones didn’t groan when he stood, and _god_ , to think Gan would have learned a thing or two about vampire sleep cycles since the beginning of his stay. It was astounding how oblivious the human still seemed. Ah well, they had time, and Gan _was_ learning. Marion could tell that much by Gan’s recent shift in temperament.

For the past week, Gan regarded him with something like caution. Marion liked to think it was because Gan finally had the sense to fear him again. But, no, this caution wasn’t self-preserving so much as it was considerate. And Marion would be foolish if he couldn’t see that the change had occurred directly after their dance. Gan was trying to be _nice._

Thinking of Gan, a tiny blossom of fear sparked. Fear that twisted Marion’s lips in an ironic smile. Fear, because he recognized the laughter he’d heard in his dream: It belonged to Ganymede.

He allowed a sheer robe to slip from his shoulders and onto the floor. That was how he’d felt once he’d spilled his history to Gan the night of the ball. He’d been exposed, vulnerable, _naked_ in the most spiritual of senses. Gan didn’t mention it again, though, so Marion simply pulled the layers back over his soul and they left it at that.

A little square notecard caught Marion’s eye on the way to his washroom. He tousled his hair back and approached, curious. In a jagged, chicken-scratch font, five words were written. _Clear your schedule tonight. Warren._

“Oh, now he’s writing me love notes.” Marion scoffed and tossed the letter in his unlit hearth. Future kindling. He considered declining, giving the crimson spirit a taste of his own medicine, but…he really did want the company. That empty field returned to mind. He needed to get out of it.

Bare feet carried him across cool, pearlescent tile. He sat on the edge of his bathtub and jumped as soon as cold ceramic touched his skin. With a click of his tongue, Marion twisted on the faucet until steaming water began to flow. His thoughts turned to Warren.

“And just what, exactly, do you want to do with me?” Marion asked the bathroom mirror, though the words were meant for someone else. His reflection offered him no answers. It only sneered. “You see me growing closer to the human, so _now_ you want to go out and show me some attention?” He turned on the sink and splashed the glass with water. “Perhaps my company comes with a price, hm? ‘Not for the first time,’ you’ll say. But ah! Maybe now I deal in secrets and I’ll only accompany you once you’ve shared some information with me.”

Marion laughed. Oh, how pleasant _that_ conversation would be. He supposed it wouldn’t prove too different from now; even if Warren were standing right in front of him, Marion would be the only one speaking. He sighed, turned off the tub, and sank into it.

“Fine.” His resignation rolled off the water in a hot stream of air. He tilted his head back to dampen his hair, then began working scented oils into the strands. A musical trickle played beneath his voice. “ _N’importe quoi_.”

He washed and scrubbed and sang until the room smelled of roses and his skin glowed with their perfume. While the tub drained, Marion sat before his vanity—Nude, save for a sheet draped across his hips—and threaded diamonds into drying hair. Whenever his head turned, his halo glinted and shined. He plucked at arched brows, spread coconut oil over full lips, patted some powder over a perky nose and high cheeks. If Warren was going to take him somewhere, he was going to do so without having anything to complain about.

When at last he slipped into an outfit, it was an assortment of ivory cloths, bright beneath a lynx fur cloak. He tucked a lace-and-pearl cravat around his neck and wondered vaguely if any of his outfits would fit Gan. Then, if he could persuade Gan to suffer into one, just for tonight. Soon, Gan would have his own lavish wardrobe. Until then, he would have to cooperate—Because, _of course_ Warren would understand if Marion wanted to bring their beloved human friend along, no? It shouldn’t be a problem, considering what _perfect_ pals they were. Marion examined himself one last time in the looking glass, blew a kiss, and headed off.

He whistled his way down the first flight of stairs, and broke into flowery lyric by the time he reached the basement. His voice rang clear and high through the vacant hall. “Are you nearly fit to depart, my crimson-eyed friend?”

Marion stopped once he rounded the corner. Warren’s door sat wide open. Odd. He must have been expecting him. Marion smirked and pressed on. “I do hope you don’t mind if I invite an extra guest—”

His foot hit the threshold. _No._ Veins turned to ice. _Please._ They pierced his heart where they cut in, made him bleed. Only, the blood wasn’t warm enough to melt that jagged frost twisting inside of him. _Anything else._ Warren’s eyes flicked up to meet Marion’s own.

“I don’t mind. I invited someone else as well.”

A thin breath whistled past Marion’s lips. His gaze clung to Warren, but he could still see _him_. From the corner of his eye, he could make out deep olive skin. Sleek black hair cresting into a widow’s peak atop a high forehead. A goatee, impeccably trimmed. And those eyes, like chips of ice, fixed firmly on his face. _A nightmare. This is another nightmare._ But no, pain didn’t exist in nightmares, and right now, _everything hurt_. Marion’s chest lurched on a thick inhale, and that hurt too.

 _I should have never spoken about you. It summoned you. Every time I pay you any thought, you only get stronger, and now you’re_ here. Tears pricked the backs of Marion’s eyes. He was too proud to shed them, but Warren noticed. Warren always noticed.

“Marion. Is something wrong.” Warren’s voice was flat. He couldn’t even feign curiosity. Marion’s lips twitched into a lopsided smile. An unintelligible sound burst through. And _he_ was still watching him. From the bed. He wouldn’t stop. Marion’s skin chafed under the attention.

The devil had returned, and Warren invited him in. Hellfire consumed them all. It was so like the crackle of a hearth…

_…The hearth at a rundown inn._

_Flame licked at worn stone, dancing merrily among tinder and ash._

_“Your eyes are like moonbeams.” Far away, a golden boy—A fool—sighed into the devil’s chest. If he listened closely, he might have noticed there was no heartbeat there. No heart at all. But he was too enchanted by the devil’s piano song, dripping seduction from monochrome keys._

_“Poetic,” came the devil’s praise. “But the moon wouldn’t glow without the sun’s light.”_

_“I’ve never seen you by daylight,_ monsieur, _”_ _the fool teased, and Marion wanted to scream at him to quit smiling, never smile for this man again, he didn’t_ deserve _it._ _“Surely that light must be your own.”_

_“And what if I told you the light is yours? For you are my sunshine, you sweet, golden boy.”_

_A laugh, giddy and high. “I’m only as golden as the coins you use to buy me.”_

_“You really should charge more.” Grey eyes twinkled with amusement. They were almost beautiful._

_“Oh, yes? How much would you suggest,_ mon chér _?”_

_“How much do you imagine the sun herself would cost?” One hand continued stroking the piano, The other curled into the bed of the golden boy’s spine. “Charge that much, and more.”_

_Another sly smile that the devil didn’t deserve. “No one else would be able to afford me.”_

_A second hand dug into the boy’s hip, whisking him into a sweet-smelling embrace. Later, Marion would know that scent to be blood._

_“I would have you all to myself then.”_

Flame devoured the memory. Marion’s nails curled into his cravat. His scars itched, burned, and his eyes weren’t faring much better. He forced down a tide of nausea.

Overhead, the front door slammed. There was a muffled curse. Marion snapped his head up. His eyes bore into the ceiling, as though he could see through it to the floor above. Gan. That was Gan. He was home, and soon he’d come downstairs, and say something snarky, and _save me_. Marion didn’t realize he’d mouthed the words until a familiar chuckle filled his ears. He thought they might bleed.

“Mari.”

That voice. It stung the back of Marion’s throat like bile. He kept focusing on the ceiling. _Come down here, damn you._ But Warren’s “guest” wasn’t going to continue until Marion met his gaze, so he did. A younger version of himself stared back at him, trapped in ink-black pupils.

 _“Ah,_ ma lune, _forgive me. I know we must have shared a sensual night, but I… I think I’ve forgotten some of its events. When did I fall asleep?”_

_“You were exhausted, Sunshine. You all but fainted while I kissed you, so I put you to bed like a proper lover should.”_

_“That was kind of you,_ monsieur _. Ah… What’s this? Is that blood on my collar?”_

_“Is it? …Oh, my. You must have cut yourself on those roses I bought you. You should be more careful.”_

_“I should be more careful.”_

Marion blinked. The flashback splintered, slicing his skin in a thousand places. He held himself together best he could, even as that flinty gaze promised to unravel him.

“Mari, sit. We need to talk, Sunshine.”

 _Sunshine_. The pet name burned almost as badly as the real thing. Marion stole one last, hopeless glance at the ceiling. _Curse you_. Then, he dragged his feet forward and almost sat on the edge of the bed. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. _He wants me to kneel in front of him._ His throat bobbed on a gag, but he never had much of a choice. Head bowed, Marion dropped to one knee, and then the other, and clasped his hands to keep them from shaking. The rest of his body made up for it, rocking him down to his core. A warm thumb caressed his cheek, traced the curve of his ear, and Marion felt smoke filling up his lungs.

“Are you not happy to see me, Sunshine? I’m sad.”

That. _“_ _Mmm, you don’t look happy to see me.”_ It was so similar to something he’d said to Gan once. _“I’m sad.”_ Marion wondered—Did this devil from his past dictate every manner of his being? Were any of his words his own? He’d never speak again if it meant he was free from this monster’s influence. He parted his lips around nothing. A finger stroked his ear again, rewarding. Marion cringed. He would rather face eternal punishment in hell than all the praise this beast could give. Yes. He was sure of that now.

Marion’s voice wavered beyond his control. “Master, I—”

Warren’s head turned, suddenly. He was looking at the ceiling when something upstairs shattered. Marion’s throat convulsed. Somehow, he managed to hold the devil’s eyes, pale and grey and gleaming like the edge of a knife. Until a stringent odor colored the air red. It was blood. Blood he’d developed cravings for over the past few weeks, impossible to ignore. _Gan’s blood._ A low whine tickled the back of his throat. He followed Warren’s gaze to the ceiling.

“Your human?” A warm hand cupped Marion’s chin, guiding his attention back where it belonged. A sharp canine peeked past the corner of his smirk. “Warren? Kill the cattle so Marion can focus on the one who traveled half a continent to visit him.”

Marion’s eyes widened. Warren stood.

“No.” Marion’s voice was weak. He scarcely noticed he’d spoken. Then, fear struck, and he realized his error.

“No?” The man leaned close, a cruel smile breaking on his lips. Marion’s mouth opened on a wet inhale. That smile curled wider. “I’ve been gone for a few measly decades and you think ‘no’ is a suitable word to greet me with?” He paused, pensive, then sat up straight. “Warren, deal with the boy peacefully. I want to meet the mortal who made my sunshine so defiant.”

Warren nodded. He slipped from the room so silently, Marion wouldn’t have believed he’d left, except he knew Warren never disobeyed orders from this man. No one could. His breath shuddered out of withering lungs.

Twin shards of glass gripped Marion’s attention, unblinking. Marion inhaled that gory aroma once more, then held his breath and stared back, heart pounding hard against its cage. _He_ studied Marion’s face thoroughly, without a word, and Marion didn’t want him to. He never wanted to be seen again if it meant those grey eyes would move away from him, if he could just be left _alone_. Suddenly, the field didn’t seem so unappealing.

He heard a conversation, muted by the floor that separated him from Warren and Gan. His breath hitched. Pressure built in his throat, behind his eyes, until he thought something might burst out of him. His dignity, most likely. He didn’t want Gan to see him like this, trembling on his knees before a man he hadn’t seen in years. Gan _couldn’t_ see this.

“Do you want to stand up, Mari?” The question sounded calm, patient, even as that grasp tightened on Marion’s chin. “Are you embarrassed to be seen in this state by a _human?_ ” He sighed, patting Marion’s cheek before letting go of him. Still, Marion didn’t move. He knew better. “Your sense of status has always been so fragile. To be intimidated by a mortal man…” He clicked his tongue, a habit Marion realized he’d picked up from him. Marion bit his own tongue and cringed against the sound of approaching footsteps.

“…an old friend,” Warren was saying, and Marion’s heart jerked.

 _No._ No, he _wasn’t_ a friend, and Marion couldn’t let Gan see him like this but—But he…wanted Gan to come closer. He wanted his blood. He wanted… Anything but this. Anything but what was happening at this dreadful moment.

“Gan, this is Klaudius Venmyr.” A flash of white in the corner of Marion’s eye. His lips quavered at the edges. His vision blurred. At least, before anyone said the devil’s name, he could pretend he’d forgotten it. Of course, Warren couldn’t just leave it at that; he twisted the knife. “He’s a very dear friend of Marion’s and mine.”

Marion didn’t know where to look. At his _master’s_ face, smiling in the direction of the door? To the doorway itself, where he’d see a much more welcome face, but full of judgement? Perhaps, even, disgust? Marion would be disgusted if he were Gan. Or should he look at the floor? The plain wooden panels that were constant and sturdy even during horrific times like these?

He found himself focusing on the cat slinking into the room. Fur prickled at the scruff of Belle’s neck. Marion felt much the same.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Gan. Warren’s shared some stories.” The devil’s demeanor changed. His voice was lighter, friendly and charming. “Call me Klaude.”

Reluctant, Marion’s eyes slid to Gan’s. He noticed the crease between Gan’s brows. The hard line at the corner of his mouth. The way he surveyed the room with dark, guarded eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest and Marion could just make out the freckles peeking under his sleeves.

“It’s Ganymede, actually.” Brown eyes hardened on Klaude’s face. Terror sparked in Marion’s gut. _Be nice, little heathen. Please. Stay safe. Be nice._ “Can’t say I’ve heard anything about you.”

Except, he _had._ Did Gan truly not see? Marion had spoken about him just the other night and—And Klaude seemed to know, because his smiling eyes flickered over Marion’s face.

“I understand. Marion has plenty of stories to tell. They can’t all be about me.” Marion started when he felt a squeeze on his shoulder. “Mari, stand up and say hi to your friend.”

Marion swallowed and slowly rose to his feet. Diamonds glittered uselessly in his hair. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten all dressed up…for _him._

“Gan, dear, you hurt yourself. Let me fetch you a bandage.” He wasn’t asking for Gan’s sake, but for his own. That sanguine scent was too close now. It suffocated him. Still, a pale smile stuttered across his lips. Gan regarded it with a deep frown.

“It’s just a little cut. I dropped a bottle of milk.” Gan’s eyes shifted between Marion’s own. The lines of his body were rigid, his feet planted still. They should have been running, running away. Instead, Gan still had the gall to be insolent. And _how didn’t he know who he was looking at?_ “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

Marion stiffened when a hand pressed between his shoulder blades. A strangled laugh fled his lips. “Well! This is a stuffy little basement, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Quite. Yes. Ah, why don’t we take this party outside? Enjoy the night life? There’s so much to see here in this booming city. So, so much.” Warren was watching him. Klaude was watching. Gan, too. His smile cracked wider. “I didn’t get all dressed up to stay cooped inside all night. Let’s head out, shall we?”

Klaude stood, towering a head above him. It was the perfect height for Marion to rest his cheek on the man’s chest. He used to pass long nights listening to him breathe, feeling Klaude’s chuckle rumble through his bones. He remembered fingers in his hair. Klaude was always stroking Marion’s hair, he loved his hair.

Marion should have cut it all off.

“Lead the way. You know the twists and turns of this place much better than I do.” Klaude patted his back again, then offered some semblance of space. Marion’s knees knocked together. His teeth chattered, even though he felt warm, insufferably warm. He clawed at his own arms and hugged himself tight.

“Ohhh, but Gan! You’ve been out all day. I assume you’ll want to sleep? We might be hell’s nocturnal seraphs, but that doesn’t mean you have to keep up with us!” Marion laughed too loudly and stopped too abruptly. He avoided Warren’s harsh glare and Gan’s curious gaze. Somehow, he maintained his smile. He had a pretty smile. That’s what Klaude always told him.

“…Yeah.” Gan’s jaw tightened. Something like irritation laced his words. Marion didn’t have enough faith to think it might have been concern. Then again, maybe it was. “Yeah. I’m tired. I’m sure you’ll manage without me.”

Gan lingered. Marion told himself he wasn’t pleading with his eyes, assured himself that he’d never beg again, not with any part of himself. He’d left that desperate act in the past, back in his mortal days. It hadn’t worked back then either. Finally, Gan turned, turned again, scooped up his steadily growling cat, and then he was gone. Marion’s heart plummeted. But it was for the best; the longer Gan stayed, the more he ran his mouth, and the more _questions_ he’d have later. Marion couldn’t bear the questions.

He had other things to worry about. He glanced to his right. His stomach heaved when he noticed how _close_ Klaude was standing. He tried for another smile, before it wavered out of existence.

“Ah. Humans do tire so easily.” Marion forced a laugh that sounded more like a whimper. “Mm. Well. That hardly means we can’t enjoy ourselves. Follow me, won’t you? Warren, are there any good shows at the opera tonight?” He slinked toward the door.

“Mari, drink before we go.” Klaude’s voice was deep and smooth. He sounded far more concerned than Gan had, which meant exactly nothing. “You need your strength.”

“Oh, but he is settling into bed now. We can find fresh game tonight, don’t you think? Warren and I always have so much fun on the hunt.”

“You’re no hunter, Mari!” Klaude boomed with laughter and clapped him on the shoulder. Marion’s entire body jostled to the side. He winced. “I admit, I thought you’d like that human of yours a little more. Assumed you might even want to spend more time with him before he has to go.”

“Go?” Another smile gashed across Marion’s features. He shook his head slightly. “Gan is staying here. He’s my little bird. I’ve caged him. I thought you’d be—proud.” He choked on the final word. Another laugh responded, and Marion’s heart dissolved.

“Mari, none of that matters if you give him the key to his cage and neglect to clip his wings.” Klaude stepped close, _too close,_ and leaned to speak against Marion’s temple. “You’re still just as soft as the night I turned you. Warren’s told me how you walk and feed and dress the mortal. He’s not your pet, though. You’re his.”

Marion’s eyes shivered over to Warren’s. For once, Warren wouldn’t return his gaze. Marion wondered if that was…guilt he saw there, written in snow-white features. But no, that would be a _human_ emotion.

Klaude caught his wrist and Marion jerked before forcing himself entirely still. He fixed his attention on a point over Klaude’s shoulder. It reminded him of his youth, staring at the walls while hungry men did whatever they desired. At least back then, he walked away with full pockets. Now, Klaude would offer him no payment except despair.

“I’m going to return in six months’ time,” that rich voice purred. “And when I do, you will have killed the boy.”

_Killed._

_Dead._

_He was certain he was dead. Everything was black and his body was on fire and his mother used to tell him about a hot place where bad Catholics went. That had to be where he lay now, abandoned, discarded, burning._

_“You’re not dead.” A ghost peered at him with eyes like wells of blood. He recognized this specter, only vaguely. “The sun is down. Follow me.”_

_A quilt draped his shoulders. At first, he wouldn’t move. Consciousness ebbed. Then, suddenly, he was halfway down a weather-worn street. Fresh burns glistened in the lamplight. They walked for a time, not that time mattered to the immortal. He felt grime on his face, congealing into a second skin._ Good _, he thought,_ it’ll cover the burns.

_“What did he say?” he dared ask, once he’d rediscovered his voice. He was surprised to find the fire had not stripped that from him. “He must have mentioned me to you, before he left. Didn’t he, Warren?”_

_The ghost was quiet a long while. If he hadn’t heard the ghost speak already, he might have thought him mute. Then, with that scarlet gaze trained far ahead, “He told me he’d be back in half a year. I’m supposed to kill you.”_

It might have been easier if he had died then. Marion’s stomach lurched. He careened forward and caught himself by clawing at the mattress. A hiss of laughter shuddered past his lips.

“I have one thing.” He grimaced at the tremor in his voice. Something wet raced down his cheek until he could taste it on his lips. Salt, and desperation, Klaude’s favorite flavors. “I finally have one thing of my own. Why must you take it from me?”

Klaude looked at him for a long moment. The silence was more painful than any words he could utter. “You’re going to take it from yourself. Sever your ties to humanity. Or, if you can’t, I will turn him. And then I _will_ be taking him from you.”

Misery clawed bloody scours into Marion’s chest. It heaved once on _something_. Not a sob. He would not weep. That would be a display of _human emotion_. The kind of emotion that Gan would no longer be permitted to feel, if he were turned. If Gan were turned—by Klaude. Gan was his prize, his dancing partner, his—friend. Saliva flooded Marion’s mouth. He swallowed it before vomit could follow.

 _“You’re going to end up just like me. And when you do, I’ll find you. I_ like _me.”_

Marion crumbled against Warren’s bed. They’d shared it once, in the beginning. Now, all they shared was a house, and a malevolent master. He muffled a groan against the sheets. Hot presence filled the space at his back. He sat up with a jolt. A hand in his hair twisted his gut into knots. Cut it off. He should just cut it all off.

_“I’ll find you.”_

 “I would still like to attend the opera. Warren, why don’t you take me? Mari has some decisions to make.” Klaude knelt beside him. His cheekbones were high and noble, his skin flushed from a recent kill. He smiled, and warm breath pulsed against Marion’s ear. “I found you.”

“Oh.” Marion’s voice came in shreds. His face crumpled, his breath hitching over and over again. _Panic_. The acrid taste choked him. He couldn’t swallow past the heart in his throat. His body pitched forward, doubling in on itself. Breathe. He couldn’t… He wheezed on three short inhales. His chest jumped on labored breaths. Until he was sobbing. Sobbing, and he didn’t care who saw, because he was dead, he was _dead_ , he’d felt his body die a long time ago so nothing really mattered.

Marion looked up, just as Warren looked back. His eyes revealed nothing. They never did. It didn’t matter; when Marion reached out, and Warren didn’t accept his hand, Marion knew whose side he’d taken.

Warren left with Klaude, and he was alone in that field again. Burning. Every part of him, starting from with the inside. His lungs. His heart. His soul. It would be foolish to think any amount of water could extinguish that flame, but Marion always had been quite the fool, hadn’t he? He let the tears come, as though he had a choice.


	14. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad for leaving Marion crying on the floor for two months, but I don't know if this is significantly better... You can be the judge. Thank you all again for your patience and feel free to hit me up on Instagram or Tumblr @drewyth! As always, feedback is deeply cherished.

Tonight, Gan was thinking about what it would feel like to never see the sun again.

He’d spent the morning sprawled in a field with only the robins and his paint for company. Hours melted into one another, as he mapped out the locations of each pigment. Every color was selected, mixed, and placed with tender consideration. He memorized the deep orange nimbus and rosy pink mist that clung to the horizon like an early dew. And once the sun crested the rolling hills in the distance, too white-hot to view, Gan packed up his things and continued his project at home.

Home. He’d finally begun calling it that. He wasn’t sure when it happened, and he never said it out loud. But, more and more, Gan was coming to think of that isolated manse as a safe place. Naturally, he didn’t take kindly to those who invaded his space. Guests were fine. Gan was raised as a socialite and, as much as he didn’t like it, he was used to entertaining guests. It was the _intruders_ that sparked alarm.

Klaudius Venmyr was an intruder. He introduced himself as a friend, he touched Marion’s shoulders with easy familiarity, but Gan recognized his energy polluting the air. The man’s presence was invasive, suffocating. The worst part was that it _lingered_ ; long after Klaude had gone, his influence remained, like the smell of scorched flesh after cremation. No one went unaffected.

Warren hadn’t left his room for a week. Gan poked his head in one night and found him asleep, apparently locked in some preternatural hibernation. He left Warren alone, after that. Gan especially avoided Marion, whose aura had grown to a caustic, unstable thing—More so than usual. Unlike Warren, Marion fluttered in and out of the house often. He played his music so loudly Gan could hear him from the basement. Even the way he spoke had changed: He reminded Gan not of the Marion Gavotte he was coming to know, but of the Golden Man he never wanted to meet. There was a superficiality to his words, and agitated laughter always seemed to crackle just below the surface.

That’s why Gan worked on his sunrise all through the day. He guided the strokes of his brush from dawn until dusk. At one point, he dozed off in a lavender pool and woke to scarlet pawprints dappling his canvas. He’d cursed to himself over and over but forgave Belle the moment she mewed at him from the windowsill. Perhaps she just wanted to make Marion feel better too. That, or she still hated him for threatening to give her away, which Gan didn’t blame her for. Either way, he continued his work.

The sunrise was a simple gesture. Gan knew it wouldn’t solve any problems, not really, but he was used to writing apology letters. He figured this was the same—Better, even, because of all the words a picture could paint. His calligraphy bled with all the hues of a blood orange sky.

And, when night fell, Gan hid his portrait in a musty crawlspace and changed into one of the outfits Marion had chosen for him. The fabric was dark green, accented with golden buttons and thread. When he turned to leave his room, an icy breeze slithered through the window, so Gan put on his scarf as well. The previously white cloth was dappled with blue and pink paint that never washed out. Gan didn’t mind. It kind of looked like it was supposed to be that way, if he didn’t look too closely.

A string of music led Gan to the third floor. The door to Marion’s piano room stood ajar. Gan nudged it open with his shoulder and waited to be noticed.

“…the devil’s choir. If he did not sing, that black tyrant vowed to silence him forever. And, if he did sing, his voice would be stolen from him anyway. Damned is the slave who revels in submission. And damned is the fool who rebels.”

Gan furrowed his brow. Marion was not singing, but _narrating_ overtop of his music, like a character in a play. Gan shifted against the doorframe, to make himself comfortable while he listened. Wood creaked. Marion’s performance choked to a stop. Golden eyes flashed in the mirror overlooking the piano. Marion relaxed when he saw who it was.

“And so, the dormouse emerges from his hole,” Marion mused.

Gan ignored the comment. “I want to go out tonight.”

Marion paused. Gan pursed his lips. He was not used to this, initiating nights out with Marion, but it had been a while and…Marion needed it. Gan could see that as plainly as anything. Finally, Marion turned to face Gan fully. His expression brightened.

“You really are dressed for the occasion, aren’t you?” Another pause, before Marion remembered to laugh. The gesture was stilted, clunky, and Gan frowned at it. “Well, anyway! Have you a destination in mind, dear Ganymede?”

Gan’s frown deepened. “Back to calling me Ganymede, huh. Okay. Well… No, I didn’t have a plan. I just—I thought you might want to…get out.” Gears clicked before he added, “You’ve been weird lately.”

“Weird?” Marion’s smile froze so still, Gan felt a chill.

“Weird.” Gan confirmed.

“Ah.” Marion licked his lips, slowly, and his gaze turned inwards. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He stood suddenly, and Gan recoiled. “Nevertheless, I must get dressed if I don’t want to be overshadowed by that splendid apparel of yours. Wherever did you get it?”

“Funny.” Gan rolled his eyes. “Just get ready, before I change my mind about this.”

“I’m thinking I’ll wear red.” Marion drifted past, stroking his bottom lip with mock concentration. “Yes, red. It complements green, you know. They are, what artists call, ‘complementary colors.’”

“I had no idea.” Gan’s voice flattened further. He fell into step behind Marion, arms crossed.

“There’s plenty you don’t know. I’d be happy to teach you, of course. I used to want to be a teacher, at some university, or a piano mentor if nothing else—” Marion cut himself short. His footsteps took the reins of conversation. Other than that, silence closed in around them. Normally, Gan would be grateful for it. Now, it felt wrong.

“Look,” Gan stepped in front of Marion, blocking his path. “Do you want to talk?”

Marion’s eyebrows quirked. “Might I get dressed first? I’ve just woken up. I hardly brushed my hair before going to my studio—” 

“Something’s bothering you.” Gan straightened as much as he could. Then, when he realized how much taller Marion still was, he gave up and slumped against the wall. “Something’s been bothering you for the past week. I think I have a pretty good idea what it is, but I don’t know why. So, do you want to talk about it or…?”

“Oh, you’d make an awful therapist. You’re not inviting at all. Do you know that? You sound like you’re _accusing_ me of being bothered, which makes you entirely unapproachable. May I—” Marion smiled coyly, “head to my room now?”

Gan stared. Marion’s smile didn’t waver. “Listen… I don’t pretend to be good with people. I’m shit with people. But I…” Gan’s eyes darted from one of Marion’s to the other. A gear slipped in his mind. “I was getting to know you. You were letting me. And now, there’s this stupid…fucking barrier between us again and—” Marion clicked his tongue impatiently. That was all it took to get Gan’s gears sputtering into motion. They nearly drowned out his growl of annoyance. “ _Fine_. Never mind. Forget I said anything. Just get ready.”

Gan whirled away, and Marion called after him. “Only with your permission, _monsieur_.”

Harsh laughter followed Gan down the hall, until he burst into an empty room and shut the door behind him. Darkness shuttered his vision, so he closed his eyes. Slowly, a ballroom materialized in his memory. A trickle of emotion stirred inside him. Did he only imagine those feelings, that night at the ball? It wasn’t long ago. When Marion danced around him and shared with him a tragic past, didn’t it mean something? Or was that only a moment, which Gan naively misconstrued?

He sighed and slid down until he was sitting in a heap on the floor. He’d gotten his hopes up. Again. It only made sense that he’d be disappointed by the end of it. He didn’t even know what he’d hoped for in the first place, if he was being honest with himself. His head thudded back against the door. He waited in the dark.

“Ganymede!” The clicking of bootheels ascended the stairs. “Ganymede?”

Gan opened his eyes. By now, they had adjusted to make out vague shapes in the shadows. Some sort of parlor, he supposed. He curled his fingers over the doorknob, above his head. “I’m coming.”

“Ganymede!” Marion called, louder this time.

Gan shouted back. “I said I’m _coming_. Goddamn.” He scrambled to his feet and tugged open the door. Marion, who had passed the room in a blur of red fabric, whipped around to face him. His eyes flew over Gan’s shoulder, darting back and forth to search the dark.

“What were you doing in there?” Marion asked. His voice was softened by curiosity.

Gan glanced over his shoulder. Shrugged. “Sitting. Why? What’s in here?”

“You didn’t have a candle lit.” Marion frowned, before resuming neutrality. “You ought to be careful about waltzing into dark places. You may not always be alone.”

Gan scoffed, watching Marion when the other began to walk. “So, what, the bogeyman’s gonna get me?”

“You’re not foolish, Gan.” Marion tossed a strange, distant smile over his shoulder. For a second, Gan thought he could see Marion again—The Marion from the ball, who didn’t hide behind ostentatious facades. “You know there are worse things than bogeymen.”

Gan considered that. “Yeah. Like people who speak in riddles to make themselves sound mysterious.” He followed Marion, who laughed. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are. Always so serious. Always…” Marion trailed off, beginning his descent of the staircase. With a sigh, Gan did the same.

“So, where are we going?” Gan asked once the front door had shut behind them. “I’m sure you’ve thought of a place by now.”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. I thought we might go out to eat.” Marion spoke to him without looking his way. He kept moving, straight ahead, without any flourish to his step.

“You can’t eat, though.”

“Can’t I?” The playful tone in Marion’s voice rang hollow. Gan stepped closer to try and decipher it. Marion went on. “I want a drink. And since you refuse to give me your neck like a civil person, I’m looking elsewhere for a bite.”

Gan couldn’t unravel that. Was this more evidence of Marion distancing himself, like Gan suspected he was? Or perhaps this was a good thing; maybe Marion had grown so fond of Gan, he didn’t want to treat him like a meal any longer. Either way, Gan mumbled, “Good.”

“I am so glad you agree.”

Silence chased them through winding streets and pathways obscured by overgrown flora. Gan had wished for a silence like this for so long, but now, he only wanted Marion to break it. Something unsettling clung to the stagnant air, Gan felt it all around him. It reminded him of their first night together in that alley. Then, he looked around, and realized why.

Marion was leading Gan into the poor side of town. Old buildings with rundown faces leered at him in the dark. Cracked stones shifted under their feet. Every so often, something moved in Gan’s periphery. The tongue of something hot and familiar slid up his spine.

“Marion, what are we—”

“This doesn’t fit into my usual palette, Ganymede, but sometimes I have cravings.” Marion pulled open a door with a gloved hand. Gan just caught a glimpse of the faded lettering above the threshold. _Isaiah’s Tavern._ “I can catch a quick meal here while you reunite with your charming second home, no? And, if you’d like to make some extra coin while we’re here…” He gestured to a trio of courtesans near the entryway. “I’m sure they can teach you their trade. Here’s to a glorious night.”

Heat flared, gears whirred, and Gan scowled. “Why did you bring me here? Of all places, why the hell would you make me come back here?”

“I thought it would be romantic. It’s where we first met, after all.” Marion sighed, casting a longing gaze around the interior. “Why don’t you take a look around and tell me who looks like they’ll have the best blood?”

“This is the place where you first decided to _ruin my life_. It doesn’t exactly hold fond memories for us—” _Us._ Gan coughed. “What I mean is, this…is shit. I got all dressed up to go somewhere with you, even wore the stupid fucking scarf you soiled, and you—”

“Someone pretty, Ganymede,” Marion interjected. He dropped the door and moved inside. “I’m very vain, as you’ve reminded me countless times.”

Gan shoved his way after him. “Pick your own person. And keep as far away from me as possible when you do. It’ll be nauseating watching you interact with them. It always is. Faking your kindness and generosity… It’s sick.” Gan’s fingers jerked back through his hair. It wasn’t greasy, wasn’t bound in a bandana, and he was attracting _attention_. He shrank in his too-formal attire. “Just hurry up. I’m hungry and don’t feel like waiting around while you seduce some innocent girl.”

“Oh, Ganymede…” Marion clucked. “Does your urging me to ‘seduce some innocent girl’ have anything to do with your desperate hope that I won’t couple with a _man_ tonight? Yes, I rather think that’s it. That sight would be far too intimidating for you.” An overly kind smile flashed across his face. “Well, to allow you your peace of mind, I’ll take my pick of the girls, as requested.”

“You really think I give a rat’s ass _who_ you drink from? You’re flattering yourself.” Gan’s lip curled. A server he recognized did a doubletake on their way past. He jerked his scarf over his chin. “Bite a man, or a woman, or a fucking horse for all I care.”

With that, Gan pushed into the crowd. The customers reeked of sewage and ale. The courtesans wore cheap perfume and cigar smoke. And when Gan inhaled his own scent, it was bitter with irritation and doubt. Familiar scents, all of them, but that didn’t make it any easier to breathe.

He avoided the bar. That was the most important thing. He knew Bram would be there, dozing off or complaining or scrubbing glasses with filthy rags. If he saw Gan now, freshly bathed and dressed like a dandy, he would never talk about anything else again. So, Gan ducked into a corner table, half-hidden by empty kegs, and pretended he didn’t know what the courtesans used it for.

It felt like so long ago that Gan trudged through this place, boasting an overfull pitcher and empty pockets. Of course, it couldn’t have been more than two months. Two months since he first met the Golden Man. Two months since this strange catalyst changed his life entirely. Nothing seemed to slow down, after that. He was stuck moving at Marion’s pace. Marion, who never stopped moving, and never stopped talking, and never stopped…making Gan worry, after that encounter with his “old friend” Klaude.

Not for the first time, Gan found himself stewing over that mysterious figure from Marion’s past. He laid his head on his arms and tried to recall Klaude’s face. It seemed that, the moment he stepped out of Warren’s room that night, he forgot it. Only the occasional feature fluttered back into his memory: A widow’s peak, cresting over a broad forehead. Facial hair, which Gan found unflattering. And that smile, sharper than an assassin’s blade. Now, though, he was alone to think, hard, and drag that fragmented vision back to himself.

Until someone found him.

“Well, don’t you look like a proper rich boy again.”

Dread pooled in Gan’s stomach. It was swiftly replaced by annoyance. _Bram_ , he thought. But when he looked up, a blaze of red hair filled his vision. Liam smiled at him. He gestured to the chair across from Gan. A younger, more naïve Gan felt like he couldn’t accept the offer fast enough. It was an older, more tired part of him that responded.

“What do _you_ want?”

“Well, I _was_ trying to find the bathroom.” Liam replied without missing a beat. His smile remained sincere. “Ran into a gutter mouth instead. I’ve got to say, I didn’t expect to see you at a dump like this.”

“Me neither.” Gan watched warily as Liam took a seat. He couldn’t find the words to protest, so he just looked away.

“Me, I just wanted to check out all the local eateries. Went through all the higher end places already, so my purse led me here. It’s got a, er, well, an atmosphere. You know?”

“Atmosphere,” Gan mumbled. He tried to pick out a flash of gold in the crowd, but his view was limited by the kegs.

“Mhm. Why don’t we order something, yeah?”

His eyes snapped back to Liam’s. “I really don’t feel like—”

“Excuse me?” Liam turned to wave down a serving girl. Her hair was blonde, _but not gold,_ and her tip tray was full.

“Liam.” Gan grabbed Liam’s elbow. It was too late; the serving girl was making her way over with a smile on her face. Once, her eyes flicked to Gan, but no recognition sparked in her gaze. It wasn’t a surprise. A plain boy like him was hardly someone to remember.

“Excuse me, miss?” Liam’s smile brightened and Gan’s heart clutched. That was the flirty smile. Gan thought he’d seen it before but, now, his chest hitched with realization: He’d _never_ seen Liam smile like that at _him_. “I hope it’s not a bother, but would you mind bringing me a bowl of soup? And my friend here will have—What did you want, Gan?”

The girl didn’t bat an eye at Gan’s name. Of course, he couldn’t blame her; the two had worked together for over a year and Gan still didn’t know her name either. They were “boy” and “girl” the moment they walked through Isaiah’s tavern doors. Individuality— _Humanity—_ was stripped away. Only, now, Gan was sitting with someone who _knew_ his name, and _knew_ his past, and he wished he could be a faceless cupbearer again.

“I want to leave.”

“Give him some pasta and cheese,” Liam decided, and folded his hands in front of him. “Please and thank you.”

The girl smiled, curtseyed, and Liam kept on looking at her. Both of them smiled absently, like they forgot they were doing it. The moment stretched too long. Gan stood.

“I’m leaving.”

Liam cleared his throat, pulled back to attention. “Awe, come on, Gan. I know you like cheesy pasta—”

“Yeah. You think you know a lot about me. I’m getting that.” Gan grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. “Just… I didn’t come here to hang out, okay? I just wanted to sit in a corner and… And…”

“Bask in the stench of liquor and sex?” Liam nodded. “Sounds like a fun pastime. Well, alright. I’ll be here when you change your mind and decide you want to dine with an old friend after all.”

“ _Stop_ acting like you know what I want,” Gan snapped. The serving girl shied away from him. Liam didn’t flinch. He only offered an easy half-smile.

“See you soon,” Liam said softly. Gan stared as Liam raised a mug from the serving girl’s tray and tilted it toward him in a toast. The gears quaked inside him like thunder.

“You…have gotten it so wrong for so many goddamn years.” Gan’s lungs deflated on a sigh. He started to say something else. Then, he shook his head, looked between Liam and the serving girl, and strode off. He was suddenly very determined to put as much distance between himself and Liam Walsh as the cramped tavern would allow.

An accented voice stopped him short. “Oh, is this the pretty one you picked out for me, Ganymede?”

Gan froze. When he raised his head, predatory eyes glinted down at him. Every pulse of blood felt painful. Marion might have been able to tell because he smiled.

“ _What?_ ” Gan bared his own teeth. He drew a conclusion, just then: Boys with hair the color of metal exhausted him. Copper and gold manes were the devil’s work. He needed more brunette friends. Or, preferably, less friends overall.

Marion chuckled. He twisted his wrist, gesturing to the booth in the corner. The serving girl was just leaving, but Marion was not referring to her. Gan knew it. His defenses spiked.

“Listen here.” Gan stepped forward. His boots nearly came down on Marion’s toes and the other man laughed again. “No. Listen. You can make a blood cocktail out of anyone else you want, but you leave Liam alone. He’s a good person. He deserves a peaceful life—Without anyone’s _teeth_ in his _throat_. Got it?”

“But, wouldn’t you know it…” Marion feigned a gasp. One fluttering hand brushed Gan aside as he went on, “I searched this whole bloody tavern and couldn’t find a cocktail with such stunning red hair.”

“Marion,” Gan barked the warning. Marion glanced over his shoulder.

“What is it? Really, Ganymede, I’m doing you a favor. You seemed so _annoyed_ with the boy just a few moments ago.”

“That wasn’t his fault. That was me. I just wasn’t expecting to see him and it’s hard to be around him sometimes given everything we’ve been through and—Marion _stop_.” Anxiety throbbed in Gan’s veins. Marion’s laughter only fueled it. He had been acting strange all week and, while the vampire didn’t seem nearly as dangerous to Gan these days, that didn’t mean he was harmless. Gan’s voice cracked. “Mari, please—”

Gan stumbled into Marion’s path. He lost his balance, caught himself against the edge of a table. Marion smirked. Golden eyes reflected writhing candleflame.

“Back so soon?” Liam’s voice made Gan’s breath catch. “You decided you want that pasta, huh.”

“I—Yeah.” Gan turned slowly, blinking as though emerging from a nightmare. Only, Marion still stood beside him, and Liam still gazed up at him with amused curiosity, and his heart still wouldn’t stop racing. “Turns out I’m hungry after all.” Gan paused. He shot a look over his shoulder and said deliberately, “He was just _leaving_.”

Marion drifted past with a wave of his fingers. “Liam! It is so good to finally meet you. I’m Marion, _Gan’s_ housemate.” Gan cringed at the emphasis on his nickname. _Now_ Marion was back to calling him that, but only for show. “He has told me so much about you. How are your recent travels?”

“Marion, you say.” For every inch that Liam’s eyes moved over Marion’s body, Gan felt his heart sink deeper. “Wow. It makes sense now, why you’re all dressed up, Gan.” Liam smiled, which Marion took as an invitation to sit. A low groan escaped Gan’s mouth. “You said you two are together?”

Gan’s temple pounded. “ _Living_ together, Liam.”

“Ah, yeah. Living together. How’s that?”

Helpless, Gan melted back into place across from Liam. Marion’s shoulder grazed his. The contact made him nauseous. He swallowed past the pain in his throat and wove his hands together in his lap.

“Oh, I like to think we’re still working things out. You know how he gets.” Marion’s voice tittered with barely concealed laughter. His eyes swept to Gan’s beneath heavy lashes. “Gan can be so mean sometimes, but I’ve seen how sweet he is beneath that rough exterior.” Marion leaned down suddenly. Gan’s spine went rigid as a pair of lips grazed his cheek. Just as quickly, Marion retreated and turned his attention back to Liam.

“So, the hair and the accent marks you as an Irishman. Is that correct? Ireland always has been one of my favorite places to visit. I don’t get much of an excuse to travel there these days, but maybe if _Gan_ wants to go sometime soon…” Marion pinched Gan’s side. Gan knocked his hand away. His own hand landed on Marion’s knee and he kept it there. A warning. “I might have to tag along with him. Oh, and don’t you think I could show you around my hometown, Gan? I think I recall you telling me how much you’d love to go to Par— _Oh._ ”

Gan found the soft spot between Marion’s legs and _squeezed_. “Paris? Oh. Yeah.” His grip tightened. “But are you sure you want to go with _me?_ ” He watched Marion’s face flush red, cold sweat breaking on his brow. “After all, I can be so.” He squeezed harder until Marion whimpered. A jagged smile sharpened the corner of his mouth. “Mean.”

He let go. Marion crumpled in his seat, breathing rough. Gan observed with a growing sense of satisfaction. Marion would not embarrass him. And Marion certainly wouldn’t try winning Liam over. _Everyone_ liked Marion, and Liam was the one person who truly tolerated Gan. He would not take that away. If he tried, well… Gan exercised his fingers.

From the corner of his eye, Liam shifted uncertainly. Gan offered him a pale smile. “You wanted to say something?”

“Er… Ireland. Yes.” Liam looked between the two of them. He hadn’t seen what happened under the table, but Marion’s pained grin gave him obvious concern. “And you’re from France? A shame I couldn’t stay long during my last trip. If I’d known Gan wanted to go so badly, I would have—”

“I don’t,” Gan said.

“He’s just being modest.” Marion’s voice sounded higher than usual. He coughed into the crook of his arm and tried again. “Although, if he really isn’t thrilled to visit, I would be more than happy to go sightseeing with you. I’m sure you’d be appreciative, Liam.” Marion crossed one leg over the other, protective, as his hand went out to touch Liam’s shoulder. “Where do you plan to head next? You must be so busy, wandering sailor that you are.”

“You’re not going anywhere with him.” Gan nudged Marion, but his hand didn’t budge from Liam’s arm. Liam watched it with a dazed expression. It reminded Gan too much of…

_“Don’t you_ want _to give me your neck, Ganymede?”_

That damn vampire charm. He’d seen it before, in the way Jamison dogged Marion’s heels and strangers gawked at him on the street. He’d even felt it once. Marion had used it to bite his neck.

_“Whatever you just did to me,_ never _do that shit again.”_

Gan lurched to his feet. “Liam, I know you’re tired. We should let you get back to your inn. Get some sleep.”

“My boat…does set out early.” Liam blinked. His smile went from absent to coherent as he met Gan’s gaze. “Got some business to handle back home, you know. I won’t be gone long but, hey, I’ll be writing you, Gan.”

Relief flooded Gan’s chest. He nodded. “I’ll walk you to the inn. Marion can meet me at home. He respects old friends’ alone time, I’m sure.”

Marion withdrew his hand with a gentle smile. “Why, of course I’ll respect your privacy. Just try not to get too friendly on the way to this inn. Or _in_ the inn.” He frowned. “You know how jealous I get, Gan.”

Gan scoffed. “Let’s go.”

Gan grabbed Liam’s other shoulder and tried not to be disappointed when he wasn’t at all charmed by the touch. He dragged them past the serving girl, who juggled two steaming bowls and a bewildered expression. Liam waved over his shoulder. Gan didn’t know if the gesture was intended for the girl or for Marion. Either option dismayed him. He only hoped Marion would be tortured by the aroma of food he couldn’t eat—And that he didn’t decide to take a bite of the girl delivering those meals instead.

“That Marion guy really is a keeper, isn’t he?” Liam asked once they entered the quiet of the outdoors.

“Well, I wouldn’t want anyone else to have to suffer his company. So yeah, I guess I’ll hang on to him.”

Liam laughed.

“I mean it.” Gan gave him a flat look.

“I know you do.” Liam beamed and wiped at his own cheek with a crooked finger. “You’re always so serious.”

Gan snorted, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Why does everyone keep saying that today?”

“It’s not a bad thing, hey?” Liam nudged him. Gan’s first instinct was to swing back, but then he remembered, _he isn’t Marion_. The thought made him scoff. “Whoa. You thinking about something?”

“You ever just… Huh.” Gan shook his head in disbelief; at Marion, at Liam, at himself. “You ever realize just how _poisonous_ your relationship with somebody is?”

Liam’s smile remained, though it softened with sympathy. “Still having problems with your pops?”

“What? No, I’m… I mean. Things have never… I don’t know. But, no. That wasn’t what I—Shit.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it all.” Liam looked to the sky and his eyes reflected constellations, highlighted in green. “You’re going through a lot right now.”

“Not any more than usual.”

“No. See, I knew you’d say that.” Liam’s smile quirked a bit at the edges. Gan didn’t know what emotion that was meant to portray, but it wasn’t happiness. “You always go on about how you’re doing just fine. And any time someone reminds you that, hey, maybe you’re not doing all that great—And that’s okay—suddenly they…what? They don’t know you? Or they don’t know how to read you?”

“Liam.” The name felt clumsy coming from Gan’s mouth. He frowned. Liam continued.

“What was that all about anyway? You said I don’t know how to read your signals or whatever. That I’ve gotten it wrong for…so many years. Or something like that.”

Gan didn’t react. He nodded at the crossroads in front of them. “Which way is your inn?”

Behind him, Gan heard Liam plant his feet, dig in his heels. “I’m just saying, you know you can come to me. Whenever something’s bothering you, you’re allowed to reach out.”

Gan stiffened, then let the tension ease out on a sigh. “I thought you said I don’t have to talk about it.”

 “And you don’t. You don’t need to have all the right words anyway. I know you rarely _do_.” Liam stepped up beside him, so Gan could see his playful smile. “But you can start with, ‘hey something is bugging me’ and we can work through it from there. You just got to stop shutting down partway through a conversation.”

“Liam.”

“Maybe then I’d _learn_ to read you, since I apparently can’t yet. But, Gan, you say people don’t understand you. Have you ever thought, gee, maybe it’s because you don’t _let_ them?”

“ _Liam._ ”

“I’m really not trying to be a cow’s tit about all this but, as your friend, and as someone who has always cared about you deeply, I’d like at least half a chance to communicate with ya.”

Gan stared at the worn wooden sign marking the diverging paths. Liam was a warm presence at his side. Even so, he pulled his scarf up higher. His lips felt numb, like all of the approaching winter coalesced within them. They moved without command. “I have feelings for someone.”

“Well, ya don’t say!” Liam laughed. Gan recoiled deeper into his scarf. His eyes dropped to a crack in the road. He remembered Rose, and how he mistakenly assumed she was talking about him when she’d made the same confession. Now, Gan was about to do the opposite. He breathed slowly.

“No, but see, it’s not who you think.”

“You’re telling me you’re not head over bleedin’ heels for that tall lady—Who’s not a lady, by the way, Liam—that I met tonight? Because he is a charmer, and look, I’ve always known you haven’t particularly liked Julianna the way you’re s’posed to.”

Gan raised his head. His vision felt bleary, like he’d just awoken from another unsatisfying sleep. He rode that sensation. This would be easier if he believed it was a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on how fast he could escape afterwards.

Gan leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Liam’s lips.

_“I’m sorry, Gan?”_

Past conversations reverberated in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut against them. The kiss only lasted an instant. It was a chaste and hurried thing. Gan’s heart thundered, even after it ended. It nearly threw him off balance once he backed away.

_“I’m flattered but I, uh—”_

Gan touched his lips. He felt them now. They were flushed with mortification. Liam’s were parted on a slight downward dip. Gan made himself look away from them. His hands shook until he caged them in his pockets. He choked back a sound.

“Really bad at reading signals,” he said. Then, he set off down a random path.

“Gan… Oi! Gan!” Liam called after him. Gan walked faster. Not that it mattered. Liam was calling out of obligation, because that was what you _do_ when someone springs a kiss on you in the middle of moonlit street. It wasn’t because he wanted to stay in Gan’s company. Gan knew, because no matter how far away he got, Liam didn’t chase after him. He let him go, for the second time.

His heartbeat calmed by the time he reached his backyard. He paused under a giant oak tree and embraced the branch above him like it was a friend. After all, he may have driven off the only one he had left. His writing hand twitched against rough bark. Already, he plotted out the first few lines of his letter to Liam. Too many of the sentences contained the word _sorry_.

A silhouette awaited Gan when he finally entered the manse. Impatient, he shouldered past it. Then, it attacked.

Gan shouted, thrashing blindly at his assailant. He saw two eyes, reflecting the moonlight that spilled through the open door. Then, a flash of red agony overtook his vision. A clawed hand groped its way between his legs and _crushed_.

“What the _fuck_ —” Tears pricked Gan’s eyes, unbidden. He lost his breath, even as he tried to jerk away. “Marion, fucking let go of me! Get _off._ ”

He hauled his weight into the other man, catching him off balance. Marion stumbled and his grip slipped out of place. Gan took the opportunity to wrench his hand away. He reeled back with a counterattack, but Marion was gone the next time he blinked. It took until he started speaking for Gan to realize he was behind him.

“Next time you’re compelled to pull some shit like that, at least have the courtesy to kiss it better,” Marion seethed in the dark. Gan’s eyes started to adjust, so he could see that Marion protected that delicate part of his anatomy even now.

Gan made a sound that was half-laughter, half-growl. “Oh, my _pleasure_. But I’ll use your definition of a ‘kiss.” He bared his teeth to make his point clear.

Marion’s laughter filled the night. “Speaking of which, did you give Liam a nice kiss goodbye?”

Gan’s heart stopped. It had been starting and racing and freezing a lot tonight, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to kickstart it again after this. Did Marion know? Somehow, had he _seen?_ Gan’s mouth gaped silently before twisting into a sneer. The bluff tasted sweet on his tongue when he said, “Passion is rarely _nice_.”

Marion didn’t respond right away. For a time, they just stood there. Gan knew—Or rather, he assumed based on stories he’d heard—that Marion could see him perfectly in the darkness. He could make out every freckle on his face, every vein in his neck, even by the dim glow of the stars. Meanwhile, Gan watched a Marion-shaped shadow standing motionless in the doorway. At last, the figure spoke.

“I think I might have to do the same, before he sets out tomorrow. He had such a strong pulse. From a good bloodline, that one.”

“If you touch him, I’ll stake you where you stand,” Gan promised. His hand twitched again, but this time, he was aching to close his fingers around something other than a pen.

“Regardless, _chér,_ I’ve been told I’m hard to resist, but try not to be so vulgar next time.” Gan saw Marion’s smile as clearly as though it produced its own light. “I have some class.”

“Don’t touch me like that again. How’s that for being ‘hard to resist?’” He tried to match Marion’s leer while knowing, perfectly, that he failed.

“‘Bite me, Marion. Don’t touch me, Marion. Hurry up and eat something, Marion. Not _him_ , Marion.’” Marion crossed his arms in, what Gan was sure he thought was, a very Gan-like stance. “You’re giving me mixed signals here, baby. And what did you do to deserve the pleasure of my bite? It’s a gift, allowing you to remember what that crimson kiss feels like, and you’ve been disgustingly ungrateful. Maybe I really should treat you like cattle.”

Gan watched as the shadow began to resemble Marion more and more. And by that, it grew more beastly. He stood his ground, even as the monster lurked closer.

“Lock you down in the basement, feed you just enough to keep you nourished, bite you, erase your memory, and compel you to sit, stay, and be a good boy.” Marion stopped close enough for Gan to make out the beauty mark below his left eye. “I could do it. Do you think I couldn’t?”

“Oh yeah? Do it, then. I _dare_ you. Force me to stay here and serve you obediently.” Gan held his arms out in invitation. Waited. When no one moved, his lip curled higher. “Oh, but you wouldn’t like that, would you? No. You prefer things like this: You pissing me off, me retaliating, and you using that as an excuse to be an even _bigger_ prick.”

“It’s been too long since our last little squabble, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” Gan paused. Somewhere behind him, the pendulum of a grand clock marked the hour. Gan let it chime. Finally, he said, “It’s almost as though you’ve been acting like an unhinged jackass again ever since that one guy visited.”

Marion stiffened. He retreated into the darkness, but it was too late. Gan had already _seen_. He stepped forward, struck with renewed confidence.

“What was that about anyway?” Gan’s words cracked like a lash in the towering foyer. “He’s your hot vampire boyfriend and you two get off on being cocks to humans together?”

One corner of Marion’s smile twitched higher than the other. His gaze was hollow. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Gan strode forward again. His voice rose with every step. Marion didn’t back away this time, but he _wanted_ to. Gan could tell. “Oh, so, alright. Maybe he’s your _ex_ but you decided you want him back, so now you’ve got to treat me like shit to prove to him—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marion’s voice rose too, raw now. Gan didn’t care. He talked over him.

“Prove to him you’re incapable of getting along with anyone but him, so of _course_ you’ll take him back. Oh, and god forbid he thinks you’re _fucking_ me or something—”

A crack of pain knocked Gan’s teeth together. His head snapped sideways. For a second, he didn’t know what had happened. Then, he realized he’d bitten his tongue. After that, he realized—Marion had _slapped_ him.

“You say _I_ talk too much.” Marion spoke with such an eerie calm, it didn’t disturb the quiet. Gan stared. His jaw ached, but he wouldn’t give Marion the satisfaction of holding onto it. He waited until the white crackle of shock faded from his vision. Then, he advanced.

“You fucking _hypocrite_.” He planted both hands on Marion’s shoulders and shoved. Or, he tried to. Marion didn’t budge. Gan’s jaw dropped and he bellowed with frustration. “You don’t like me talking? You don’t like me treating your private information like my own personal _toy?_ Fuck you. I don’t care _what_ you are. I’ve let you stomp all over me for _months_ now and I even crammed into these stupid clothes and bought you tickets to that _fucking musical_ you like so much.”

Chest heaving, Gan started ripping into his own clothes. He tore the overcoat off of one shoulder. Popped a button on his shirt. The stitching burst under his arm and a trail of golden thread hung by his ankles.

“What are you— _Ganymede_. I custom-ordered these for you. You barbarian. You brute. _Stop_ this. Flora will never forgive this sacrilege. Ganymede Reid. You’re an insolent mutt that I plucked from the— _Stop._ ” Marion shrieked. His thumbs dug into either of Gan’s biceps. Gan wrestled with that grip, thrashed from side to side, and failed to free himself.

“Let me go. Let me _go, don’t touch me, let me go!_ ” Gan pitched himself forward and back. He tried to knock his forehead into Marion’s nose and missed. Panic mingled with his fury until he was screaming, strangled by his own scarf as it pulled too tight.

All at once, Gan careened sideways. He landed in a disorganized heap on the floor. He panted, struggling to fend off the attacker at his throat. His fingers tangled into fabric and he tore his scarf away with a gasp. His breaths came in hitched syllables as he fought to orient himself. He sat in a bundle of torn rags that once formed a magnificent outfit. Marion stood in the same spot as before, not even winded. Gan groaned when realization hit.

Marion let him go of him because he _wanted_ to let go.

It didn’t matter how much Gan fought. Every victory he won only came because Marion had handed it to him. Even if Marion didn’t frighten Gan as much as he used to, the same reality held true: Marion was a near-invincible, otherworldly being. Gan’s strength was nothing compared to his.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” Gan staggered upright. He hesitated, caught the blank expression on Marion’s face, and whirled away in a renewed fit of rage. “God _dammit_.”

“I should have just done it,” Marion muttered behind him. “I should have just done it already. It would have been quick and easy and _damn me_ for being so weak-willed!”

Gan didn’t know what “it” was, but he decided he didn’t care. He barreled down the basement stairs, putting Marion’s rambling behind him.

“You don’t know the mercy I’ve shown you! You don’t know how grateful you should be! I’ve shown you so much more kindness than you realize, and I’ll make certain you know it one day, curse you!”

Gan slammed his bedroom door. Tangled ribbons of thought pounded inside of his skull. Was this more of Marion’s teasing? Annoying, frustrating, but harmless banter? It didn’t feel that way. His quips held an unprecedented level of malice tonight. And the way Marion _looked_ at him, cutting smiles flanked by blank expressions. Something was wrong. _Marion_ was wrong. All wrong. All of this—

“ _Fuck_ him.” Gan glanced around his room, scattered. Whatever Marion was showing him, it wasn’t mercy. Wasn’t kindness. The vampire didn’t want a friend. He wanted food. And, apparently, an enemy. “Fine, then. _Fine_.”

Gan tore open the door to the crawlspace. Rusted hinges snapped, and the door came away in his hands. He cried out and tossed the wooden plank aside. His hands closed around another material: Canvas. Vibrant colors caught his eye. And he tore into those too. Scraps of pink, and orange, and red fluttered to the floor. He ripped and clawed and shredded at his work, cursing Marion’s name all the while.

When he finished, Gan sat in the remains of a sun that would never finish rising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is called "Duet," if that gives anyone any hope... See you next time!


End file.
